


phantom

by AtoTheBean



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond's reception back to MI6 is a bit icy, Community: mi6_cafe, M/M, Pre-Slash, occult october, sp00qy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-23 09:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12504596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: "Q, do you believe in ghosts?”“Ghosts?  No of course not,” he dismisses.  “Do you?”Bond just shrugs, turning onto Q’s street.  “I never did, but I’ve killed a lot of people.”





	1. October 3

**Author's Note:**

> My first 00q story...written for MI6-cafe's Occult October Challenge. Thanks to NixDucky, jaimistoryteller, and zerozerokyu for beta reading, and all the MI6-cafe 00qChat crew for sprints, encouragement, British vocab wrangling, and hand holding.

Q hears the soft click of the door and looks up even as he continues to type.

Bond.

He looks resolutely back at his screen, pressing the keys somewhat harder than is strictly necessary as 007 saunters over to his work station, dove grey suit pressed perfectly.

“007. Any particular reason you’ve graced us with your presence?”

“‘Us’, Q?”

Q allows his gaze to scan the room. Members of the skeleton night crew are in the corner monitoring 004’s mission, but the room is otherwise quiet. It’s later than he’d realized.

“Me, then.”

Bond shrugs. “I’m grounded.”

“I’m aware. Which explains my confusion. I can’t kit you for a mission you don’t have.”

Bond frowns and places his hands in his pockets, swaying slightly as he looks around the room. “I was thinking you might have some new weapon or other that requires testing,” he suggests.

“At half seven?”

Bond shrugs again, and Q may not be an agent, but he gets the distinct impression that Bond is… uncomfortable. He looks impeccable, of course, but there’s something around his eyes that makes Q think he’s hiding something. Or avoiding something.

“Have you finalized your report from the Benghazi mission?”

“Yes, Quartermaster,” Bond replies with a smirk. “I suspect that’s why I’ve been grounded.”

Q snorts and looks back at his screen, resuming his typing. “Well, I understand that it’s customary in these situations to go _home_. I realize you haven’t been back from your… _sabbatical_ for very long, but they did give you keys for a new flat, did they not?”

Bond scowls. “They did.”

“What’s wrong? Not up to your standards? The security system, at least, is state of the art. And if memory serves, the view is quite nice.”

“You’ve been in my flat?” Bond looks genuinely surprised.

“It wasn’t yours at the time. I personally installed all of the security systems in that entire building when MI6 renovated. You aren’t the only agent housed there.” He glances at Bond, noting the tension in the man’s shoulders. “I’m sure it’s not as charming as your old flat in Notting Hill.”

Bond shrugs. “It’s better than the place they found for me after I ‘died’ and before I ‘retired.’ As you say: the view is nice. Besides, I’m not there all that much.”

It’s true in general. Mallory has been working Bond hard since his return, in part because he’s _needed_ , and in part to allow the rest of the agents and staff — the ones who had to clean up the debacle in the aftermath of Spectre — time to get used to the idea that Bond is back, and not to be ostracized for his abandonment in their time of need.

It is only working so well, to be honest. When she’d first seen him, Eve had removed her stiletto and brandished it in a manner that had wiped Bond’s smirk from his face and raised his hands in surrender in a second. She is still barely speaking to him. By the time Bond had made his way to reconnect with Q, he’d learned his lesson. He’d retreated to bland professionalism, which Q matched in kind and continues to this day. Making this evening’s visit all the more curious.

“You’ve been on mission so much, I’d assumed you’d use this time while grounded to get settled in. M had your boxes and furniture moved over while you were in Paris. Have you really managed to unpack it all? It would be an excellent use of a Tuesday night,” Q adds, attention back on the screen.

He’d meant it as a dismissal, but Bond apparently takes it as an opening. “My books are unpacked. Jack is on a shelf. The rest is still in cartons. I should really find the box with the bar…”

“Jack?”

Bond winces. “M’s dog… the… the porcelain bulldog. It’s draped in a Union Jack. Seems fitting.”

Q hums agreement, ignoring Bond’s uncharacteristic bumbling and pushing his glasses up his nose before returning to his code. He’s losing the stream of the logic. If Bond doesn’t leave soon, the rest of the night will be a loss. It’s probably a loss already. He rubs his eyes under his glasses. When the silence persists, Q sighs and swipes his fingers across the track pad, pulling up a secondary desktop with the prioritization of beta testing. This will be a mistake. He knows it. Give 007 an inch, and you’re his doormat in a millisecond. Q _knows_ all too well. He just can’t stand seeing the man at loose ends.

“I have departmental meetings all day tomorrow. Come back Wednesday and R will set you up on some preliminary designs for a high power scope for the newest SSAM assault rifle. We need multiple test runs with several types of ammunition to determine best fit and any required calibrations. I should have the test parameters designed and ready for you by 10 a.m.”

“Thank you, Q,” Bond says, stepping away.

Q waves his hand dismissively.

Bond’s halfway to the door when he turns and remarks, “You know, young boffins need their beauty rest, too.”

“Out, Bond!”

That smirk is going to be the death of him. Q watches Bond leave, cursing the spring in his step. One more thing to finish before he can go home. Lovely.

Q steels himself and focuses on the screen as he hears the door to Q branch click closed.

Bond’s cologne hangs heavy on the air. Like a phantom.


	2. October 5

Q registers a shift in the air, a sudden absence of the low murmur of voices ubiquitous in Q-branch, and he knows Bond has returned from the firing range. R had sent him down with three new scopes, four types of ammunition, and a matrix into which he could enter data. The project was intended to keep Bond busy for several days. But considering that Bond disappeared for hours, that seems unlikely.

“Quartermaster,” Bond says as he approaches, setting the case with the scopes down on Q’s workbench. 

“Just a moment, 007,” Q responds, finishing two lines of code to shore up the firewalls. He closes the file and returns his monitor to his home screen, windows showing the progress of all the major projects or missions undertaken by Q branch at the moment.

He turns to Bond. “What do you have for me, 007?”

Handing him the _completely_ filled out matrix, Bond says, “The optics on the SFB-2 seem superior, but I found it uncomfortable. It mounts to the gun just a bit too far down the barrel, and I found myself straining to get my eye in position. The SFB-7 was much more comfortable, both in its mounting position and diameter of the lens, but…”

“But?” Q asks, looking up from the data.

Bond smiles ruefully. “Well, it’s possible that I just need to make an appointment with medical, but it seemed blurry in the lower right corner—at about four o'clock.”

Q pulls the scope from the case and holds it to the light. There’s no obvious flaw. He holds the scope against his specs looks around the room, and yes, there’s a shimmer, a flaw in either the shape or the surface of the lens, just where Bond had said.

“Good news, Bond. I won’t be sending you to medical after all. Not for your eyes, at least.”

It’s the closest he’s come to the teasing banter that they shared before Bond had walked away from them all on that cursed bridge. Q can’t miss the surprise and light in Bond’s eyes.

“Good to know, Quartermaster. Anything else you need tested?”

“Ah, no. This was meant to keep you busy through the end of the week. But we’ll get busy on a new design combining features of the -2 and -7 and have something for you to test next week. Thank you for your efficiency and additional notes.”

As he had two days before, Bond ignores the dismissal, placing his hands in his pockets and surveying the room.

“A bit early for Halloween decorations, isn’t it?”

Q shrugs and opens an email to inform R that they’re ready for another design round on the scopes. “The minions _will_ make a contest of anything. This is more benign than most of their proposals. I’ve set out some restrictions to keep it safe, but otherwise I don’t see the need to interfere. They work hard; they deserve a bit of an outlet now and then.”

Bond leans against the workstation, taking it all it. “I shudder to think of what safety restrictions you had to impose. No sharp knives?”

Q actually snorts at that. The very thought. “Their ambitions tend toward the technological — robotic goblins and the like. I had to put a restriction on aggressive wireless interfaces that might pose an exploit for someone to back into our systems. Anything created by Apple, Google, or Amazon, for instance, would be incredibly easy to hack. We have restrictions on connecting any such devices to our network, but if the minions modified them first to create their franken-bots, the network might not recognize them, especially from behind the firewall. And since those devices are constantly pinging anything in the room and beyond, once they had a foothold — well, our systems should be resistant, but I prefer not to invite chaos.”

“Eminently sensible, as usual.”

“Yes, well.” Q pushes his glasses up and clears his throat, “Thank you for your input, 007. I’ll have R contact you when we’ve finished incorporating your suggestions.”

Bond takes the dismissal this time. “Quartermaster,” he says, nodding his goodbye and strolling slowly, almost reluctantly, toward the door.

That reluctance bothers Q. There’s something almost hesitant in the way Bond carries himself now. True, his welcome back to MI6 has probably been icier that he’d expected, but Bond has always had an inherent confidence — arrogance some would say — that makes him seemingly impervious to criticism. It’s hard to imagine that a few cold shoulders would have any impact on him. Yet Bond no longer strides into a room as if he owns it, no longer flirts and charms with everyone he sees. He seems to be trying to suss out where he belongs, as if he’s no longer certain.

As infuriating as his behavior had been in the past, Q finds the new hesitancy terribly disquieting.


	3. October 8

It’s a long, excruciating weekend, what with 004’s mission going tits up in the wee hours of Sunday morning and no fewer than _five_ agents in the room watching Q try to pull off a technological and logistical miracle to get her and the data both out…all on hand in case Q fails and they need to deploy immediately,

“There should be a door on your right at the end of the hall,” Q says as he studies the plans on the screen.

“I see it,” comes the breathless voice over the comms.

“What’s the ETA on the helicopter?” he calls out to the room.

“It’s three minutes out,” Anderson answers, showing Q once again how efficient and bloody good she is at anticipating needs for the field missions.

“004, through that door and down the stairs. Then make a right and you’ll see a door that will take you to the green. Your transport will be there in… two minutes, now. Is the laptop still secure?”

“Haven’t dropped it yet,” she pants.

“Excellent. Our distraction still seems to have them busy chasing your ghost on the north side of the building. Once they hear the rotors, though, they won’t be fooled. Best make haste across the lawn.”

“Oh, here I thought I’d just stroll. But your idea is much better. I’m out. See the hopter. Hauling arse.”

There’s a quiet few moments where all they hear is Margot’s breathing over the rotors growing louder. Q glances around the room. M and Eve are whispering quietly in the corner. 006 is standing near two newer agents — not 00s yet — who will be deployed to Budapest to gather more intel while Alec chases data to Belgrade if this all goes to hell. Bond is further down, leaning against the wall, looking rather haggard. Q wonders idly if he and Margot were ever involved.

Gunshots ring out over the comms. Q is about to enquire when Margot’s laughter startles them. “I’m i—.”

“One more time, Margot,” Q enunciates. “You’re ‘hit’ or you’re ‘in’? Please clarify.”

“In! I’m in, and we’re away. I could bloody kiss you, Q!”

He lets a breath out, slumping against the edge of the table. “I assure you, that’s not necessary,” he responds over relieved laughter drifting through the room. He swipes the trackpad to a different screen, checking on the status of her papers. “Your travel documents and a secure case for the laptop are waiting for you at the airport with agent Johansson. Do _not_ try to access that laptop. It’s almost certainly teeming with security measures.”

“I’ll leave it to the expert, darling.”

“Yes, well. Safe travels, 004. Do try to get some rest. M would like you in his office to debrief at…”

“10:00,” M finishes.

“No rest for the wicked,” Margot answers.

“On the contrary, we encourage you to rest. Just do it in the air. I’ll look for that laptop case on Monday.”

“004 out.”

Q removes his headset and sags: his elbows on the table, head in his hands, fingers mussing his curls. He no doubt looks as wrecked as he feels, but at least they aren’t rushing an emergency mission and mourning a colleague.

“Well done, Quartermaster,” M says with a pat on his shoulder. “Go get some rest. We need you fresh first thing Monday morning.”

Q straightens. “Sir, I should really be on hand until she’s safely on the plane home.”

“No, Q. You should really delegate. Do I need to arrange for a car?”

“No, I… I’d like to wrap some things up before—“

“I can take him, sir,” Bond interrupts his babbling. He glares at the man, unwilling to be shooed out of his own department like a child. “Whenever he’s ready, of course.”

Oh.

“But my address is classified.”

Bond merely raises an eyebrow and tilts his head with a knowing smirk.

“You already know it. Of course you do.” Sodding spies.

“Thank you, Bond,” M says. “You should get some rest, too, 007. You didn’t even need to come in tonight.”

Bond frowns, and Q really looks at him for the first time since the emergency started. Why _is_ he here? He’s still grounded, so there’s no chance he’s going to be asked to head out on mission. And if anything he looks worse than he did when he came back from his last mission. A memory flashes of the first time they’d met. Bond had looked raw, just returned from the ‘dead’ and held together by spite, tenacity, and duty. He doesn’t quite look that frayed now, but there’s a distinct similarity. He looks haunted.

The room slowly clears as Q closes windows and saves files and gets them filed properly. R continues to monitor 004 from a corner with Chowdhury and Markham watching on, when Bond appears at his shoulder.

“Will you be much longer, Q?”

“Am I keeping you from a date, Bond?” he asks, closing the satellite feeds and password protecting the access.

“Hardly. But you’ve yawned six times in the last two minutes, and I either need to make you a cuppa, or escort you home for some proper rest. The latter is wiser, but I’m not going to press the issue, no matter M’s preference.”

Q rubs his eyes under his glasses, tamping down the urge to deny he’s tired. Lying to a 00 is folly in the best of times, and he’s barely upright.

“No tea, thanks. I’m still hoping to get some sleep tonight…this morning.” He locks down his mission notes and closes the work station. “I’m ready.”

They are silent on their way to the garage, silent as they enter the car and head south on the A203. Because of course Bond knows exactly where to go without asking. Bloody, sodding spies. That’s okay. It means Q can relax back into his seat and close his eyes. 

Halfway to Q’s flat, Bond finally breaks the silence.

“That was good work, with Margot.”

Q hums, but doesn’t open his eyes. It’s just his job after all. As the silence stretches, he opens one eye to study Bond.

He’s tense. Both hands on the steering wheel and exhibiting much more intent that the empty road demands. After a moment Q asks, “Are you alright, Bond?”

James shoots a glance sideways. Q can almost see some reassuring lie form on his lips before Bond stops himself, squares his shoulders and sighs. “Q, do you believe in ghosts?”

“Ghosts? No of course not,” he dismisses. “Do you?” 

Bond just shrugs, turning onto Q’s street. “I never did, but I’ve killed a lot of people.”

“There’s absolutely no scientific evidence for ghosts. And you’ve killed bad people. People who threatened us. I’ve never known you to be guilty about it.”

“There’s M.”

“You didn’t kill M.”

“She died on my watch.”

“By that logic, I should be haunted by a third of Q-branch.”

“What?”

Q waves off the inquiry. “Wait, have you… do you think you’re being haunted?”

Bond’s expression shutters. “It’s nothing, Q. Probably just getting used to the sounds in a new building. And here we are. Do you want me to park and walk you up or just wait until I see your light come on?”

It’s a dismissal. Q wants desperately to press Bond to answer, but whatever tentative openness they’d shared was apparently driven by sleep deprivation. Which is fine, really. Q is far too tired at the moment to have a discussion about the _occult_ , of all things. The sun will be coming up soon, and Q would prefer to be behind his blackout shades and under the covers when it does. Still, he feels the deprivation.

Sighing, he answers, “I’ll be fine. Thank you for the ride, 007.”


	4. October 10

006 has been sent to the Ukraine, and 004 is still recovering from a bullet wound in the arm, and everyone else is in one far flung location or another, which is why Bond is sent to Budapest, despite the fact that he’s still meant to be grounded and looks like shite.

“The drop went wrong with 005,” Q explains as he hands over the tech for the mission: Bond’s preferred Walther, a modified earpiece, a radio, a rather svelte collapsible face mask, and a series of what Q calls _distractions_. “He’s recovering at the Vienna field station, and our contact still wants to make the exchange. Needless to say, I’ve chosen the location for the drop this time, and I’m much more confident it’s secure. I have access to all the CCTV and I’ve been running facial recognition since the last drop failed. If they show up, I’ll know. And I’ll be on comms with you the entire time.”

“And these?” Bond asks, lifting one of the quid-sized disks.

“Those produce vast amounts of an irritating smoke when deployed. Press here,” he pointed to the depressed center area, “for two seconds and then the smoke will start after five seconds. I suggest you be out of the area or wearing the mask. And it’s not a perfect seal, 007. Don’t linger. But it will give you protection enough to get clear.”

“Remote detonation capability?”

“None yet, though we have ideas for a watch detonator. For now, treat them as non-destructive grenades good for offering cover or flushing quarry. If they prove useful, we’ll work on adaptations.”

Bond closes the small metal case and puts it in his jacket pocket.

“Anything else?”

Q hands him an envelope. “Travel documents. Your plane leaves tonight at ten. The drop is Thursday morning, so you’ll have a day for reconnaissance. You should be back by Friday evening. Do try to rest on the plane tonight, 007. We need you alert.”

Bond’s usual “You worry too much, Q” seems a little strained to Q’s ears.

Q arrives early the next morning, anticipating a quiet day of recon in advance of Bond’s meeting. Eve intercepts him on his way to his office asking if Bond’s checked in yet.

“Eve, I’ve only just arrived. I got an alert that he’d made it through customs and to the hotel last night, but otherwise I don’t know anything.” He ushers her into his office and goes immediately to his work station to see if there’s news.

“Hmm.” She idly picks up his Wallace and Gromit Halloween figurine. “He’s still meant to be grounded.”

“Well, yes,” Q responds, focused on his computer. “That’s not his fault. M is the one sending him out early.”

“How does he seem to you? Same old Bond?”

Q turns sharply, studying Eve’s faux-innocent face. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Someone mentioned they’d seen him at odd hours, so I checked his access log. When he’s in town, he comes to the office nearly every day — grounded or not — often in the wee hours of the morning.”

Q’s brow furrows. “Does M suspect him of something? Where does he go?”

“Not really. He goes to the gym, Or comes down here — but I checked the footage and he just walks around. It doesn’t look like he’s trying to access anything he shouldn’t.” Which explains why Q’s security hasn’t been triggered. “It’s just, well… it isn’t really like him, is it? He goes off grid after missions. Drinks scotch in his luxury apartment or goes on the pull or whatever. It’s just odd.”

Q doesn’t get to ponder that bit of information, because at that moment Bond checks in and the mission goes _spectacularly_ tits up. Their contact is dead (not Bond), and the data is on the move, and Bond after it. It takes all of Q’s tech and all of Bond’s skill and a frankly terrifying amount of _blind luck_ to secure the drive and kill the interloper. After 36 straight hours of action, Bond is driving across the border to Croatia, where a private plane is waiting to bring him home.

“Still with me, 007?” Q asks over the comms. “It would be downright embarrassing to have you die at this point because you fell asleep at the wheel.”

“Just enjoying the lovely drive. I should really visit Dubrovnik sometime when no one is chasing me.”

“Hmmm. Your destination is just south of Split. I anticipate an hour to your rendezvous.”

“I know, Q, and I’m fine, really. You should go sleep. You’ve been awake as long as I have.”

Q looks at the clock. Ten-thirty p.m. and Christ he’s tired. He leans against the table, head drooping below his shoulders as considers Bond’s offer. “I’ll sleep once you’re in the air. I might let R check you in, though. Oh, and M says you should go home and get some sleep first. Just bring everything in by noon tomorrow.”

“How reasonable of him,” Bond murmurs. Conversation fades, and Q is lulled by the sounds of Bond’s breathing and the muted sound of the engine until Bond’s voice cuts in with a quiet, “Q, is this a secure line?”

Q jolts to alertness. Bond knows it’s secure from outside ears, which must mean he’s asking if it’s secure from _inside_ ears. The branch is virtually empty this time of night, but Q doesn’t take chances. “Hold for a moment, 007. Something requires my attention. Q out.”

He transfers the comm line to his phone, which is _not_ recorded for mission logs, grabs his empty mug and waves it to draw the attention of the minions in the corner to indicate he’s off to make himself tea. He’s switching on the electric kettle on in his office when he reconnects the line. “It’s secure now.”

He hears Bond blow out a breath, as if he’d been afraid Q’d abandoned him. “Who were those agents with Alec last weekend, when you were running ops for Margot? I don’t know them.”

Really? He’d gone through those theatrics for a personnel question? He reaches for the tin of the _good_ tea.

“I imagine there are quite a few agents you don’t know, Bond. There was a huge shake up after the merger collapsed and Nine-eyes was shut down. You missed all the fun.” Q puts his tea in a strainer and pours the water. “The 00 program was obviously not disbanded, but there were agents in MI5 that were under investigation. Some of ours went over to fill in the gaps, and some of theirs came here for training. 006 has been mentoring Chowdhury and Markham for a few months on and off. In fact, Markham was going to try for 00 status before you came back. They’re both competent in the field and quite knowledgeable with tech. Chowdhury’s last mission required him to break into a computer system with only modest assistance from Q-branch. I was quite impressed.”

“Hmmm. And the vetting process?”

Q freezes midway removing the strainer. “Are you implying M can’t do his job?”

“No. I’m… I don’t know. I’m just trying to get the lay of the land. You trust them?”

“With what, exactly?” he asks, pouring some milk from the mini fridge and stirring it in. “I have no reason to think they won’t do their job. But no, we haven’t developed enough of a rapport for me to trust them beyond that.”

There’s a pause before Bond asks, “Do you trust me?”

Q closes his eyes and breathes in the steam from his mug. How to answer? Q doesn’t _want_ to trust Bond. Doesn’t want to give the man any additional advantage. Or at least doesn’t want to admit it.

“Nevermi—“

Q sighs. “I trust you to do your job in an exemplary fashion, until such time as it no longer suits you,” he settles on. “And I trust your loyalty to Queen and Country.” It’s honest, if incomplete.

“Well,” Bond says after another long pause. “I suppose that’s as much as I deserve.”


	5. October 13, Friday

When Q arrives back after six hours of sleep, a shower, and a meal, it’s to a bustling Q Branch. The room seems abuzz with pride that despite the mission being an absolute _clusterfuck_ , it was a success because of Q-branch and 007’s diligence.

M’s apparently sent pastries, knowing that the minions appreciate a sugary pat on the back, and the mood is practically celebratory. More macabre decorations have appeared overnight — a poster of a rabbit sitting on a mound of skulls in front of a cave, a wanted poster of a claymation penguin in disguise, and a giant cardboard cutout of a were-rabbit.

Q enters his dimly lit office, and stops. The privacy frosting is activated in the glass, separating his private space from the mayhem of greater Q-branch, but he doesn’t remember switching it on last night. He scans the room to see if anything’s been disturbed, and a turn to the sofa in the darkest corner of his office solves the mystery.

Bond is snoring softly, curled in on himself almost defensively, as if he has to protect his heart even in sleep. He looks _terrible_ , almost fragile. Q tamps down the surge of protectiveness. By all accounts, 007 is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. And yet, he’s here.

Before Q can decide what to make of that and whether to let him sleep, Bond stirs.

“Q?”

“Yes, 007. Did you miss the instructions to go home and rest before coming in?”

Bond sits up, elbows braced on his knees. “She won’t let me sleep. I’ve done everything she’s asked and she won’t let me _bloody_ sleep.”

“Who won’t let you sleep?” Q asks, setting his computer bag on his desk and wondering if this burgeoning candor from Bond is worth having to hear about his latest paramour.

“M. She’s… maybe there’s still some aspect of Spectre I’ve yet to uncover. Maybe that’s why she won’t _shut up_ unless I’m here or in the field.”

Bond looks up as he realizes what he’s said and that Q has gone deathly still. His expression shutters. “Never mind, Q. I shouldn’t burden you with this. I’m fully aware how it sounds.”

He starts to stand, but Q points and commands, “Sit!” and miracle of miracles, Bond does.

Q stares for a moment, taking in the signs of exhaustion, remembering hints Bond has given over the last several weeks that something’s been amiss. Bond bristles under the attention, but before he can respond, Q turns away and grabs two mugs. Tea. Tea will definitely be required for this conversation.

Bond is silent as Q busies himself with strainers and the kettle, silent when Q places a steaming mug in his hand, and silent as Q pulls his deckchair in front of the sofa and sits in front of him. He looks wary, but he hasn’t fled yet.

After a few sips, Q says, “M — _our_ M —won’t let you sleep,” just to make sure his tea-infused mind hears the same thing his tea-deprived mind had.

“So it would seem,” Bond answers.

“And this isn’t some joke… some Friday-the-13th prank you’re playing on me?”

Bond scrubs his face with his hand, scratching at the stubble. “Sadly, no. Are you going to report me?”

“To whom?”

“Medical? Recommend a psych exam?” Bond looks resigned. Even _he_ seems to know that this is not normal, nor _remotely_ okay. And yet, Bond seems himself, albeit with lower defenses that usual.

After careful consideration, Q answers, “Nooo. I think not. I think I’ll send you to the gym for a shower and _hope_ you have a spare suit and razor down there, so that you can attend your debrief with M — current M — in your usual bespoke form. And then I want you back in my office at half five. I should be ready by then.”

“Ready?” he asks cautiously.

“To investigate whatever is happening in your flat.”

“So…so you believe me?”

Q hedges. “I can’t say I accept your explanation of events, but I do believe you that _something_ is happening. And it’s affecting your work and occurring in a space _I_ authorized as safe for habitation. As long as you’re comfortable with me coming to your home tonight, I’d like a chance to suss it out.”

“I don’t mind,” Bond says quickly. “I’ll even make you dinner. Though I have to warn you, she doesn’t usually start making a fuss until well after midnight.”

“I’ll be sure to pack something I can sleep in. I assume you have an extra blanket for the couch? Now you’d best be off. If you show up to M’s in this state, he _will_ send you to medical.”

Bond finishes his tea in one go and makes for the door, turning hesitantly before he leaves. “You know, Q, for what it’s worth, I think I trust you rather more than you trust me,” he offers, harkening back to their conversation over the comms.

“Yes, well, I’ve never walked away from you,” Q answers, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. When he looks up, Bond’s gone.


	6. October 13, Friday, evening

Bond returns exactly on time, looking so poised and well groomed Q could almost imagine that this morning was a figment of his own imagination. Only the expectation in Bond’s expression belies any raw nerves on display that morning. Q grabs his bag, containing equal parts technical equipment and spare clothes and toiletries he typically leaves at the office, and falls into step beside Bond as they head to the garage. He can practically feel the wave of gossip at his back.

“How was your debrief?” Q asks to distract himself from the fact that he’s _going home_ with Bond.

“Simple. It would seem that my Quartermaster had already reported that I’d salvaged a “shit show of a mission,” I think was the quote. I just needed to corroborate a few details.”

“Hmmm. Well, they’d considered sending Rogers, and I doubt we’d have this outcome if they had. You’re a lot of work, god knows, but they need to remember you’re often worth it.”

“Why, Q, I’m blushing.”

Q snorts. “Don’t.” They get into the car and Q leans back in the leather seat. It’s starting to feel almost familiar, which Q suspects is a dangerous thing.

“Do you like Italian?” Bond asks into the comfortable silence that’s fallen between them. “I’m afraid pasta is all I really have ingredients for at home. Otherwise we can stop for some take out.”

“It’s fine,” Q says, waving his hand dismissively. “I forgot to eat lunch again, so whatever’s quick and easy will do.”

Bond hums some vague disapproval that Q ignores, opting to watch the industrial portions of London give way to the greenery of the older neighborhoods.He hasn’t been back up here since they opened the building. He’d forgotten how nice the old trees were.

Bond’s flat is mostly unpacked. The kitchen, where Bond immediately goes to start dinner, seems fully functional and at least as well-stocked as Q’s. The sitting room is blend of modern and antique — reflecting the man, Q supposes. The dark walnut of the wall of built-in cabinets and windows contrast with the clean lines of the cream sofa and warm mushroom grey walls. A simple, low, expansive coffee table that looks ideal for spreading out documents seems perfectly harmonious with an Edwardian drinks cabinet in the corner that Q would take for a family heirloom if he didn’t known Skyfall Lodge had burnt to the ground. The dominant colors are muted and neutral, but the few splashes of color seem perfectly at home. For instance, Jack is on an upper shelf in the bookcase closest to the security interface; Q smiles at it as he signs into the security panel as an administrator and looks over the log. On the surface, nothing’s amiss. The logs show Bond’s ingress and egress, the timing of lights going on and off when Bond is on mission to give the appearance of occupancy, temperature controls, alarm settings, and window openings and closures. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, but there are subroutines and non-interfaced internal daemon logs he can delve into once he’s finished his cursory look.

He retrieves equipment and starts a sweep of the flat when Bond comes in, tie and suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and (of all things) in a _chef’s apron_ , which he manages to make look sexy, much to Q’s annoyance. He’s carrying two glasses of red wine, offering one to Q has he surveys the equipment being spread out on the coffee table.

“I’ve already swept for bugs,” he says. “Multiple times.”

“I’m sure. But I have some tricks that might work on things that aren’t constantly broadcasting. Humor me, Bond,” he responds, accepting the glass and taking a small sip.

“It needs to breathe a bit still. Dinner should be ready in about twenty minutes. The sauce is simmering, and I’ve put the water on for the pasta. Can I help with anything?”

Q hummed into his wine glass. “Not at the moment. I don’t really expect to turn anything up with these scans. But after dinner we’ll set up some sensors that will send data to my computer overnight. If ”M” shows up, perhaps we’ll see something in that.”

Q performs his scans as Bond finishes dinner, and it’s all surprisingly not awkward. The scans show up nothing in particular, except for a strange electromagnetic blip in a wall near Bond’s bedroom door. All Q can figure is that it’s a conduit for the building, but it seems oddly placed. There are no active recording devices he can detect, audio or video, which has Q breathing a bit easier. By the time dinner is served, he’s convinced at least that Bond isn’t being intrusively surveilled by an outside entity. He sits down in front of a plate of heavenly-smelling chicken marsala fettuccini and a refilled glass of wine, and conversation with Bond flows easily enough that he could almost mistake this for a date. Bond even shows some personal interest in him.

“You said ‘Our M’.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Earlier today, when I told you about” he waves his hand to vaguely encompass the apartment, “you called Olivia Mansfield ‘Our M’. Did she recruit you, too?”

“Oh.” Q takes another sip of wine, trying to decide how much to divulge. He knows Bond’s file inside and out, but he is fairly certain Bond doesn’t even know his true age. If he gives away too much, Bond will certainly have the tenacity to search and find the rest. At the moment, though, that seems like a risk worth taking. There are things about Bond he doesn’t trust, but his loyalty to their shared duty isn’t one of them. “She did. I caught her attention some nine years ago, and she recruited me into the branch a few years after that. Then after the explosion, she promoted me to Q.”

“You ‘caught her attention’?” Bond asks with a smirk. “What did you do? Hack MI6?”

“Not that she noticed,” Q answers, smiling behind his glass. “No, it was a bit more benign. There was a sort of engineering puzzle challenge at Oxford.”

“You went to Oxford?”

“No. Well, later I did, but not at the time.”

Bond huffs a laugh, obviously enjoying the fact that Q isn’t making it easy. “So, you _crashed_ a puzzle challenge at Oxford, no doubt showed up a bunch of wealthier, older students from better families who were miserable at your win, and M scooped you up?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘better families’ but otherwise that's a fair representation of events.” The wine is making Q feel warm and content… and lowering whatever is left of his defenses. If the conversation feels one-sided, he knows it’s just because Bond is fully aware that Q knows his files. He knows Bond’s schooling and recruitment story, a bit about his time in the Navy — there’s no need for Bond to repeat the information. And some part of him _wants_ Bond to understand a bit about his history. “I finished my degree in mechanical engineering and then came to work for her.”

“Not computer science?”

“No. I took some classes, but I’m predominantly self-taught in computer science. Engineering I had to learn, but coding came as naturally as talking. Just another language,” Q says, shrugging.

Bond leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Do you speak other languages? Human ones?”

“Hmmm. French,” he says, raising the glass of Bordeaux. “I understand a bit of German but can’t really speak, and my pronunciation is _rubbish_. Computer languages are easier to learn… no concerns about wrapping your mouth around new sounds. Oh, and I have some conversational Arabic, but my vocabulary is fairly restricted to the weather and ordering a meal. A roommate in uni taught me.”

Bond’s expression is odd again, eyes dropping momentarily to Q’s mouth before asking, “You mentioned families. Is yours still alive? Do you have siblings?”

Q straightens up, realizing that he’s allowed this get more personal than he’d intended. “I’m afraid that’s classified, 007.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, Q,” he says sitting up. “I’m not trying to interrogate you. Our M always preferred to recruit orphans… I just wondered if you were like me. I won’t pry.” He flounders with his glass for a moment “Would you like more?” he asks, motioning to Q’s empty plate. “Or would you prefer some coffee and dessert? I think I have some chocolates still I picked up in Paris.”

Right. Back to business. “Perhaps a chocolate after I’ve finished with the tech. It was delicious, Bond. Thank you. I suppose I should get back to deploying the sensors.”

Bond nods and starts to clear the table as Q retreats to the coffee table, bringing the remainder of his wine with him. They each work separately for a while, and it isn’t uncomfortable, _per se_ , but it feels like a step backward. He regrets the loss of… what? Friendliness maybe? But it’s probably for the best.

Bond is wrapping things up in the kitchen as Q puts the finishing touches on the last of the sensors and video leads, testing that the wireless connection to his laptop is working on all of them. Together they deploy twenty devices throughout the flat, focused on the living room, because Bond claims that’s where most of the activity is focused. Then Q opens the security console and hardwires into it with his laptop. When they’ve finished, Q is sure that whatever happens tonight, he’ll have two sources of information recorded on his laptop: whatever the sensors and video recorders see, and whatever the security system logs. And of course whatever he and Bond actually _see_. Now all they have to do is wait.

“What should we do?” Bond asks. “It’s still early. Do you want to watch a movie? I have no idea what you do in your spare time other than build more tech.”

Q shakes his head and picks up a chocolate. He’s still finishing his wine from dinner. “I’d like to replicate your normal evening at home as much as possible. We’ve already diverged from that some, unless you routinely have people over for dinner, but for the rest of the evening, just do what you’d do if I weren’t here. Would you normally watch telly on a Friday night?”

“Sometimes, but I’d be more likely work out, shower, have a scotch or two while reading and go to bed.”

“Well, don’t mind me. I’ll just be here in the corner checking things over and finishing my wine. Perhaps I’ll borrow a book off your shelf.”

Bond hesitates. “I feel rude ignoring you, Q.”

“Well, then imagine that _I’m_ ignoring _you_ ,” Q says with a smile, focusing on his screen, “and you just have to entertain yourself.”

Bond huffs a laugh. “Just like work, then?”

“Just so.”

Bond chuckles on his way to the bedroom. Of course ignoring him is easier said than done when he comes back in a thin t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms with a jump-rope draped over his shoulder. He nods at Q, who is curled up in the corner of the sofa with a book he’s now sure he won’t be absorbing, turns on the stereo, and alternates between jumping rope, doing pushups, and doing sit ups, until a sheen of sweat makes his shirt translucent. It goes on _forever_ … well at least over an hour, and Q makes a show of pulling his computer onto his lap and reviewing all the sensor connections again, just to have something active to engage his mind. And then, just abruptly, it stops. Bond sits and drinks a liter of water until his breathing is steady, and then disappears into the bathroom. Q sinks back into the cushion and closes his eyes.

 _That_ was pure torture. Q wonders if Bond knows what he’s doing to him. Part of him suspects he does, but it’s hardly his fault. Q invited himself over, told Bond to do whatever he did normally. Bond can’t help being ridiculously attractive. It’s not his fault that Q finds him distracting. Bond’s never shown any interest in him beyond the low-grade flirting he seems to do with everyone — used to anyway — and Q isn’t about to make an arse of himself by showing _his_ attraction...it had only caused him pain before, after all. He’s here to help an agent.  Maybe a friend. This is not a date, and he has no business ogling the man, no matter the temptation.

He takes advantage of Bond’s absence to change into his own loose track pants and t-shirt — salvaged from his work gym bag — aware that he doesn’t fill them out nearly as satisfactorily as Bond does. He’s fit, but it’s in a lean, wiry way he typically keeps well hidden beneath cardigans or suits. His workouts are typically rather different than Bond’s. He goes to the kitchen and pours the remainder of the wine they shared for dinner in his glass. Bond returns a moment later in tartan sleep pants and a fresh t-shirt, hair still damp from his shower, carrying a pile of blankets and a pillow.

“Would you like a scotch, Q?” he asks, placing the blankets on the couch and walking to the bar in the corner of the room.

“I’m finishing off the wine, ta. But you go ahead.” He watches Bond pour himself two fingers worth. “What kind is it?” he asks, not recognizing the bottle.

“Hmmm? Oh, a bottle of 18-year old Cardhu that I forgot I had. Uncovered it in a box of books here in the living room.” He lifts the glass to the light, tipping it to show the color. “Would you like a sip?”

“Tempting, but I’m afraid it will not go well with the Bordeaux,” Q says, tipping his own glass. “The color’s lovely, though.”

Bond sits in a plush chair and relaxes back into it. He eyes the glass thoughtfully and seems almost nervous. “I want to thank you, Q, for dropping whatever plans you may have had and coming over. I would have never asked you, and I don’t know quite what to expect tonight, but I appreciate you coming.”

Q nearly stammers his answer. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, James, whatever it is.”

If Bond seems increasingly nervous, twitchy almost, as the night wears on and his scotch slowly disappears, Q says nothing of it.


	7. October 14, wee hours of the morning

At two a.m. every light in the house comes on. A door creaks and slams shut, and then the lights flicker as a series of dissonant sounds echo through the flat. Q can’t distinguish most of them, but the the last thing he hears is undeniably in M’s voice: “I assume you have no regrets. It would be unprofessional.” And then the room is plunged into darkness.

Q has already grabbed his laptop and is checking that he has data from every sensor when he hears the click of the door down the hall and the soft approach of footsteps. He glances up as Bond clears the corner, wild-eyed with his gun drawn.

“If you shoot me, 007, I shall be quite vexed.”

Bond sags in relief. “Did you see it? Was it real?”

“I saw the lights, and I’ve got the door on video,” he says, nodding to the screen, “and I heard the voices and sounds.”

“But did you see her?” Bond’s voice is desperate, drawing Q’s closer attention. He sets the laptop down and stands, noting that Bond’s pupils are blown _wide_ as his eyes dart between the kitchen and sitting room. “She was there, covered in blood. Bleeding out again!”

Q’s gaze follows Bond’s outstretched arm, finding nothing but pristine hardwood floors. “Is she there now?” Q asks cautiously.

“No.” Bond scowls, glancing helplessly around the room. “You didn’t see her.”

“I didn’t,” he acknowledges. “I heard the noises — the door slam — I saw the lights go mad. I heard M’s voice, but that’s it.”

Bond looks crestfallen. “That doesn’t… why would you see some and not all of it?”

“I don’t know. Did you take anything before going to bed? Sleeping pills or something.”

“No. I left you, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. I lay awake maybe ten minutes, which is nothing lately. I’m not imagining this, Q.”

“No. Something’s definitely amiss. I have loads of data to sift through, but I think it’s best if we get out of here. Go pack an overnight bag.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’re coming to mine for the weekend. I don’t know quite what’s happening here, but I’m not leaving you to it alone. And you need rest, James; you’re completely knackered.”

Bond stares at Q for a moment with an almost incredulous expression and then turns on his heel and disappears down the hall.

By the time Bond comes back, wearing jeans and a cashmere sweater with a bag slung over his shoulder, Q has disconnected his computer from the security console and packed up all the sensors. They argue briefly about who will drive, but Q finally wins. “You’ve used the cars I’ve designed and built, Bond. Do you really think I could create those precision vehicles if I couldn’t test drive them? And you’re far more upset and sleep deprived than I am.”

Bond even seems grudgingly impressed when Q efficiently navigates the London streets and deftly parks on the street behind his building.

He’s quiet as they enter Q’s flat, obviously curious at the involved security interface and wanting a look into the rooms beyond the entrance, but restraining himself in an attempt to be a good guest. Q sets his things on the entry table as he re-sets the security perimeter and checks the logs. Finding nothing suspicious, he motions Bond to follow him into the living space.

They are greeted by an imperious meow.

“Hullo, Ada, lovely,” Q says, scooping up the sleek black cat and offering his face to nuzzle. “I’m terribly sorry I’ve neglected you, but needs must.” She grudgingly rubs her face on his before turning to eye Bond.

“Ada?” Bond asks, raising his hand hesitantly to scratch her ear.

“After the Countess of Lovelace, the first—“

“Programmer, yes I see,” he continues as Ada graciously allows Bond to pet her. “And do you do much coding, Ada?”

Q snorts. “If batting at my keyboard when I’m trying to work counts, then yes. Go on, darling,” he says, setting her on the floor. “Go tell Alan I’m home.”

Bond’s expression is entirely too fond. “Let me guess, after Turing.”

“Hmmm,” Q agrees. “I was going to name him Babbage, but he’s actually rather awkward and shy, so Turing seemed to fit better. He’ll be beastly at the moment — he hates when when I come home in the middle of the night — so don’t expect to meet him ’til morning. Which reminds me. Let’s see, Kitchen’s through there,” he says, pointing. “Bathroom’s down the hall on the left, just ignore the door on the right, and the bedroom’s straight back. Let me grab a proper pair of pajamas and then you can have the bed.”

“I’m not taking your bed, Q.”

“I’ll be going through the logs I pulled from your security system, anyway. I’ll be spread out all over the sitting room—”

Bond looks decidedly uncomfortable. And then Q realizes _this_ is why the access logs to MI6 show Bond entering the building in the wee hours of the morning. He doesn’t want to be alone, and doesn’t want to admit it.

“Tell you what,” he says, changing tack. “How about if we both change back into sleep clothes and get settled on the couch. I can go through the logs and you can read or watch telly — that way if I need your help identifying some activity in the logs you’ll be on hand — and if either of us ends up having a kip, at least we’ll be comfortable.”

Bond nods and relaxes.

They change and Q makes tea — chamomile, not proper tea. Bond asks him if he has any newspapers, and Q hands him an old iPad with links to BBC open. Bond glowers, but takes it.

“Tsk. You know, at least the articles are constantly updated with new information. And far fewer trees are destroyed.”

“I suppose,” Bond mutters, sitting on the sofa and donning a pair of reading glasses and _bollocks_ he should not look that good in them. Q sits cross-legged on the other end of the couch, pulling his laptop into his lap and focusing on the screen. There’s a puzzle to be solved, and they are soon each engrossed in their screens.

Well, Q is. The iPad slips from Bond’s grasp as he slumps toward Q, fast asleep.

“Ridiculous man,” Q mutters as he reaches behind his head to pull the blanket from the back of the sofa, letting it drape over the agent. His voice sounds far too fond to his own ears.


	8. October 14, proper

By half six, Q has learned several things of note. First, the strange electromagnetic signal in the wall is almost certainly _not_ some random conduit, since synching the timestamps on the various logs he’s reviewing shows it spikes with activity just as the lights go crazy through the flat. Second, it’s clear that while the security system _can_ control the lights, there’s no record of a scheduled event at two in the morning. Meaning that if the system _was_ used, it was _hacked_.

Which leads to the third revelation: if someone has hacked Bond’s security system, they are very, _very_ good. Q has searched for all standard exploits, and all the exploits he’s written himself, and none of them are present. Which means that, rejecting any supernatural explanation — and make no mistake, Q is definitely rejecting supernatural explanations, Bond’s bleeding M notwithstanding — this hack is something Q has never seen before. Something new. It’s almost enough to make him grin and crack his knuckles. A challenge. He would enjoy it if Bond weren’t the target.

Which brings him to his final revelation of the early morning. Bond sleeps with the carefree abandon of a child when he’s on Q’s sofa. He even seems to unconsciously seek Q out. Which is how Q ends up with Bond’s head resting on one thigh as his laptop balances on the other. And now that the initial review of the logs is complete, Q finds his hand itching to stray from the keyboard to comb his fingers though short cropped hair.

It’s an absolutely terrible idea. He gets up carefully, eases a pillow under Bond’s head, and flees before he can do something _truly_ stupid.

An hour on the treadmill clears his mind, and by the time he’s on his fourth sun salutation, the sun is actually rising. Bond stumbles into the doorway of the spare room/private gym, bleary eyed, just as Q’s finishing up in warrior pose.

“Morning,” he greets a blinking Bond. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Fine,” comes the gravelly voice. “A bit stiff, but really, better than I’ve felt in weeks. It seems I managed to take over the entire couch.”

“Yeah, I spotted that,” Q says, smoothly transitioning to the next pose as Bond watches, eyes going from Q’s stretched out fingers to his bare feet on the mat to his trainers, tidily placed by the treadmill.

“You ran.”

Q huffs a laugh. “You must be one of those spies I keep hearing about,” he comments as he finishes the last pose and reaches for the towel draped over the treadmill. He pats the sweat off his face. “What?” he asks, when he realizes Bond is still wide-eyed.

“I just…I didn’t know you run. And I managed to sleep through it.”

“One might think you were sleep deprived,” Q quips. “I run five to ten miles a day when I manage to make it home.”

“And…yoga?”

“As you see,” he answers, a bit defensively. “It’s good for core strength, which is important for shooting, and helps get rid of the cricks in my neck and back I invariably get in my line of work.”

“I’m not…” Bond raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not taking the mick, Q. I just had no idea. You’re obviously quite proficient.”

Q shrugs. “It helps clear my mind. The running, too.” If he didn’t know better, he’d say Bond was staring. Of course, Bond’s never seen him in anything so tight as his compression wear. “I’ll just… go have a quick shower, and then we can have some breakfast.”

Bond backs out to let Q pass. “Did you get any sleep at all, Q?”

“No,” he says, self-consciously slipping past Bond, “but I’m fine for the day. And I managed to get through all the logs. And as I said, running helps clear my head. I have a loose plan of action now. I’ll tell you when I’ve cleaned up.” Q feels Bonds eyes on him as he moves down the hall and to the loo.

By the time Q’s out of the shower and dressed, something delicious coming from the kitchen.

“Bond?”

“Ah, I got hungry, and took the liberty of getting started. I hope you don’t mind,” he says, flipping an omelet onto a plate. “You can have the first one.”

“I don’t mind,” Q reassures quickly, pleased he’s had a run, because honestly he’s eaten more — and better — with Bond in the last 12 hours than he probably had in the several days before that. “Just rather surprised you found all this in my fridge.”

“I looked behind the takeaway containers and found you had eggs and cheese and chives. I would have done a proper fry-up but—.”

“I’m out of sausages and tomatoes. I know. There hasn’t been much chance for shopping this week. I’d hoped to go today. This is perfect, actually. I’ll just put on some music and the kettle while you finish making yours.”

Soon they are sitting down to another meal together, and Q is explaining what he’d uncovered in the logs. Or more accurately, what he hasn’t uncovered.

“So, you didn’t see evidence that the system was being used?”

“Bond, I have no doubt the system is being used for at least some part of what we saw. But, no. I didn’t see any evidence. What I realized while I was running — and I need to check again to make sure — but I think there were timing irregularities. I kept having to realign the feeds from the sensors and the logs to get them to line up.”

“Meaning?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe the internal clocks are just slightly different, and I periodically noticed and compensated. Or maybe there are parts missing. Microsections.”

“That’s possible?”

Q shrugs. “It shouldn’t be. But if it’s happening, it must be. I can’t tell with what I have; I’ll need to write some code for the next time. But _if it is_ , I have every intention of finding the flaw in my system that allows it and the culprit who perpetrating it it and dealing _harshly_ with both.”

Bond looks shocked, and perhaps a bit skeptical, whether it’s at Q’s analysis or abilities, he’s not sure. “So what’s the plan?”

“If we’re to get to the bottom of this, I need to write some code. Something that will record what the system is seeing in real time, _including_ any commands coming from the outside and any overwrite commands. That will take much of the morning, I’m afraid. Then we need to go back to yours to install it and make a link I can access from here. And I need to go to Tesco.”

Bond huffs a laugh. “And what should I do?”

Q considers that as he takes a sip of tea. “I need your permission, first, Bond. This is all going to be a terrible infringement on your privacy — more than normal for Six and its operatives. I wouldn’t normally ask for this sort of access, but I’m going to need to set up video cameras and other sensors throughout the flat to ensure that I see everything the next time ‘M’ shows up.” Bond nods. “And I think it would be helpful to have a sense of how long this has been happening — when it started, how it progressed. A sort of written account of your perceptions for me to compare with the readouts. Did you always see and hear M, or did it start more simply? That sort of thing.”

Bond leans back and crosses his arms thoughtfully. “Well, first of all, whatever you need to do is fine. Like I said last night; I’m glad to have your help on this. I appreciate you wanting to maintain some semblance of privacy, but I think under the circumstances, I can tolerate your eyes and ears for a while. It will be like being on mission, more or less. Now, regarding my perceptions, no, first it was just lights not working, or being on when I was sure I’d turned them off. Then my bedroom door started slamming. At first I thought it was imbalanced, or I’d left a window open, but that was never the case. Then I started hearing things: rushing sounds that became whispers and then M’s voice. I didn’t start seeing her until I was fully unpacked, and even then, it doesn’t always happen. But those visions, Q? They’re getting more and more brutal.”

“Could you write it out for me? With dates, if you can remember?”

“Of course, but why?”

Q shakes his head. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but the more data I have, the easier it will be to see a pattern.”

“Like a jigsaw puzzle.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I sometimes think of espionage as putting together a jigsaw puzzle when you haven’t seen the picture —and the picture is moving — and half the pieces are on the floor, face-down. The more pieces you put on the table, the more likely you are to see the picture before it’s changed so much you have to start over.”

Q is impressed. “Yes, exactly. So, if you can try to give me dates when things changed, we can cross reference with your missions, people with access to the building. Just see where it takes us.”

Bond nods. “I give you as much access and as much detail as I can.”

The morning is quiet, Q coding and Bond journalling his apparently occult experiences, looking more and more grim as he goes. Q declares the code finished at noon, and they return to Bond’s flat, which looks harmless and serene in the light of day. Q can’t help but notice, though, the tension Bond carries in his shoulders as they walk through the rooms redeploying sensors and looking for anything they’d missed the night before. As if he’s in enemy territory, despite being surrounded by familiar, presumably cherished things.

They finish with the sensors and Q links into the system again with his laptop, scanning it for unapproved code as he had the night before. Finding nothing, he uploads his new program, creating a back-door recording of all activities in the system and piping it directly to the IP address of his home network. Q feels rather pleased and clever. He’s sure that tonight he’ll get sufficient data to suss out what’s happening, if not who’s doing it. He offers to buy Bond a curry for lunch before heading to Tesco. James insists on buying the groceries since Q is putting him up for the weekend, and on cooking dinner again. Q isn’t going to argue, but goes to the off-licence to get a very nice bottle of wine. He knows Bond is staying with him essentially under duress, but figures they may as well be civilized about it.

The evening feels oddly domestic, now that Bond has had a good night’s sleep. They trade stories over the bottle of wine, Bond talking about his time in the Navy, and Q describing being in Q-branch when the explosion happened, being trapped, and in charge, what with the death of old Q in the initial blast, and listening as his colleagues bled out around him over the following hours, despite his attempts at first aid and CPR. Bond is quiet through the story, expression unguarded and ranging between sympathetic and impressed. Q isn’t even sure why he tells the tale — he hasn’t thought of it for ages — but it’s suddenly spilling from him, and he realizes that Bond may understand his feeling of that day better than most.

“So, is it your doing, that the first-aid stations throughout the new building are so...complete? I’d assumed it was medical.”

“Medical suggested them, but the proposal didn’t get much traction until I wrote a memo insisting that we have them throughout Q-branch and the R&D labs. We’re just so isolated, you see, moreso now even. Mallory thought I’d gone rather mad, but we had a… frank conversation about what happened that day, how we ran out of Israeli bandages and needed more than two defibrillators. And in the end he decided it would look bad to deploy them in the lower levels and not throughout the building.”

“So, in essence,” Bond says, swirling his wine in his glass. “You take responsibility for our well-being, both when we’re abroad and at the home base.”

“Yes, well,” he stammers, adjusting his glasses. “You cannot do your job if you aren’t kept safe and able to concentrate on—”

“—Q, I’m not teasing. I’m quite appreciative, considering that I’m currently benefiting from, shall we say, your willingness to make house calls. Just… for all your efforts, you cannot protect us from everything. You shouldn’t try to bear that. Especially when our...adversary, if you will… may not even be mortal.”

Q blinks awkwardly.

“I dearly hope, Q, that your program turns something up. But you can’t deny that I saw something last night you _didn’t_. Your tech isn’t going to be able to solve that mystery.”

Q inwardly rails against the idea. Of course his tech will find it, whatever it is. He does not believe in the supernatural, and nothing he knows of Bond would suggest he would either.

“‘Once you’ve have eliminated the impossible —’” Bond continues.

“—Give me a bit more time to eliminate the impossible, won’t you Bond, before accepting any improbable ‘truths’? I’ve barely been at it a day.”

Bond nods his acquiescence, sipping his wine again.

Q isn’t satisfied, huffing in annoyance, not at Bond so much but the world. “Someone is having a go at you, James. Someone who’s decidedly alive and _not_ supernatural. I’m sure of it. Someone who knows you and knows our systems and perhaps entered _your flat_ in order to orchestrate a hack. And I want to understand how they’re doing it and even more _why._ And it’s not because I’m your Quartermaster. I’m using those skills, perhaps, but it’s more than that, it’s… it’s…”

“Q.” Bond reaches across the table and grasps Q’s forearm, freezing him mid-sentence. The room is suddenly very, _very_ still. “I know,” Bond says, almost in a whisper. “And I appreciate it. More than you know. And I’ll reserve judgement on these events for as long as you ask me to.”

The moment hangs suspended, Q acutely aware of the warmth of Bond’s hand on his arm, and the heat in his own cheeks — from the wine no doubt — and the intense blue of Bond’s eyes which are scanning his face and softening almost imperceptibly. It’s too much. He’s sure he’s showing too much, but before he makes an utter arse of himself Bond lets go and sits back, offering an almost sad little smile before clearing his throat and offering to wash up.

Q starts to fade shortly after dinner, having been up forty hours or so. Bond shoos him off to his bed, insisting that he’ll be fine reading alone until he’s tired, that he obviously finds the sofa quite comfortable, and he’ll be sure to wake Q if the alarms signaling activity in Bond’s flat go off and don’t wake him on their own.

Q finds his bedroom dreadfully quiet after the constant companionship of the last day. He’s so tired, though, that any wistful thoughts don’t last long. He wakes the next morning to sun streaming through his window. The alarms never went off overnight, and though he and Bond are both thoroughly rested, both feel a bit disappointed over breakfast. Q checks the logs and the video feed. The flat remained undisturbed. Bond excuses himself to go home around half ten, and Q can’t help but feel he’s failed him.


	9. October 18

Agent Markham returns from Mogadishu with intel on an arms dealer and a network of terrorists spanning five countries in Africa, as well as a sprained wrist that will ground him for at least a week. Alec is sent to Yemen to pick up the trail, and immediately reports that there are potential drops in both Al Hudaydah and Aden. He can’t be in both places at once, so Bond is ordered to Aden. It’s a rush job, of course; Q is struggling to prepare his Walther and documents before Bond has to leave.

Bond’s flat has been suspiciously quiet for three days, and Bond looked properly rested yesterday when he’d tested a new version of the rifle scope. This morning, though, as he meets Q to get his equipment, his eyes are red and his face is drawn. Q doesn’t really need to ask; he saw the alert on his own system that morning, announcing the recording and logs were ready for his review. Only knowing that he had to get in early to kit James had allowed him to resist the lure of those logs.

Once he hands everything off, he quietly suggests, “Try to get some sleep on the plane, Bond. I’ll see if I can’t find time to go through the logs. Has there been anything else? Anything that wouldn’t show up on the electronic surveillance?”

Bond looks around smoothly and slips Q a flash drive. “I’ve updated the journal there,” he says quietly, his back to the room. “I can explain over a secure line from the field if you need it, but I’d rather not talk here.”

Several of the minions are showing a guarded interest in their conversation, so that seems prudent. A bit louder, Q states, “I’ll have your comms starting when you land at six tomorrow morning. The drop is anticipated for midnight. R will be monitoring 006 concurrently, so if coordination is required, Q-branch will direct you. Safe travels, 007.” Bond offers him a small smile as he leaves with his kit in hand.

That evening, with Ada curled up beside him and Alan looking on from his perch on the sofa back, Q goes through the logs and through the update to Bond’s journal. The journal doesn’t tell him much, but what’s there is troubling: even on nights when Q’s sensors and the logs are quiet, Bond occasionally hears things that have him investigating the flat in the dark, gun out. Most of those nights Bond is able to get back to sleep an hour or two later, and sleep until it’s time to come in, but it still worries Q that Bond seems increasingly addled by things Q can’t measure or detect. If medical knew, Bond would likely be forcibly grounded indefinitely — perhaps even retired.

Last night, on the other hand, it appears all hell broke loose. Q is correlating the recording his little program sent to his harddrive with the official system logs and the recordings from his sensors, when his private cell rings.

“Bond?” he queries, surprised the agent isn’t on a plane.

“I board in five minutes,” James answers, anticipating the concern. “Have you looked at the logs?”

“I’m just starting. I’m sorry. I just got home an hour ago and couldn’t at work.”

“England comes first, Q. Always. I just wanted you to know, she said something new last night. I wasn’t sure the logs would pick it up, and I didn’t have time to enter it in the journal.”

“‘M’?” he asks, hating giving her name to this torture.

“Hmmm. She normally just talks about regret being unprofessional, but last night she told me…” He sighs, like he has to brace himself. “She said to take the shot. Like she could see that I had my gun out.”

“And did you?”

“Of course not. Trust me, I _wish_ there were something I could shoot to make this stop.”

Q makes the note in a new window on his computer as an announcement is made over a loudspeaker on James’ end. “Anything else I should know before I go through them. Did you see her again?”

“No, but.” He sighs again and mutters something Q can’t hear over the noise of the airport.

“Say again, 007?”

“I could _smell_ her, as I was going through the flat. I could smell that… that perfume she used to wear...spice and vanilla. That was new. I’ve never noticed the scent before. And it won’t show up in your tech.”

No, it certainly won’t. “Before last night, you reported you’d heard sounds that wouldn’t show up. What sort of sounds? You said ‘movement,’ but that could be footsteps, papers shuffling, things being moved…”

Bond hesitates. “I heard the floor creak. I heard...I heard rustling, but it was always behind me. I didn’t hear it move there, I just...I could never catch it. Wherever I pursued it to, it was still behind me. I went in circles for an hour.”

Q tries to imagine how that could be accomplished with tech. There aren’t enough speakers in the flat to create that effect.

“I have to go, Q. Thank you, again, for looking.”

“Get some rest James. I’ll try to have some news for you tomorrow.”

Q pores over the logs, finally retiring to sleep at midnight, knowing he needs to be back in the office and ready to be on Bond’s comms at six. At this point, he feels that for every answer he finds, two new questions pop up. It’s quite vexing.


	10. October 29

The mission, surprisingly, goes off without a hitch, though it takes a bit longer than anticipated. Both Alec and Bond get in several days of reconnaissance before any actual shipments arrive. Bond ends up being the one to intercept the drop, causing a shipboard fire that destroys a sizeable amount of inventory. With any luck, that will set the operation back a bit without painting too large a target on Britain. Q is in his ear from the drop on, but between the breakneck pace of the mission and the fact that Q-branch is crawling with observers and fellow operatives — Markham loiters on and off through the entire mission, as if checking that his intel isn’t wasted, and even M makes it down for the fire — there has been no chance to discuss _side_ projects.

If Bond’s mission success weren’t enough, Alec manages to break into an office he was meant to be surveilling from afar and brings home two hard drives full of contacts and transactions. Q feels practically wooed as 006 drops them on his desk with a wink and a smirk while he has 007 on comms coming in from Heathrow.

“Tell Alec to stop distracting you while you’re handling me,” Bond says, and if Q were _Bond_ , he’d have made some suggestive quip, but he just rolls his eyes as obviously as he can, making Alec laugh out loud. Bond pauses, realizing what he’s said, and the unsaid reply practically hangs in the air.

“You’re ten minutes out, 007. Surely you can pass your own notes to 006 when you arrive. I’m a busy man.”

“Yes, Quartermaster,” Bond responds with an amused huff.

“Come deliver your tech once you’ve debriefed with M. And welcome home, 007.”

It’s half four by the time Bond makes it down to Q branch, noting the bustle as he hands over a (gasp) fully intact Walther.

“What’s all the hubbub?” he asks quietly.

Q looks around the room. He’s gotten so used to the extra activity, it hasn’t registered properly for days. They've worked straight through the weekend.

“It would seem that part of the ‘great merger plans’ of yore was the consolidation of some confiscated weapons into a single storage facility. Apparently, in all the chaos after C’s demise, a few things have gone missing. M’s graciously allowing our counterparts at -5 and the military side to poke around, and offering some Q-branch assistance in tracking manifests.”

“Seems a bit below your lot’s pay-grade.”

“Yes, well, everyone’s keen on locating these particular items, so I haven’t gotten any complaints.”

“What’s missing? Rocket launchers? Anything that needs testing?” he suggests with a smirk.

Q snorts, pleased to see Bond approaching his old demeanor. “Hardly. Vials of nerve agent left over from the Iraq war.”

Bond winces. “I thought that was all to have been destroyed.”

“Hmmm. So did we all. But there are backlogs on the processing, and C allegedly had aspirations to weaponize more than computers.”

“Sarin?”

“Nothing so straightforward. But with so many of our missions tied to terrorism, and chemical attacks in Syria last spring, visions of the subway attacks of the nineties are on everyone’s mind. They’re probably just in some secure closet somewhere, but it’s unsettling to know they’re missing. Like sarin, a little can cause a lot of damage, though from what I’ve heard it’s not clear these are in a form that’s easily aerosoled. Small blessings.”

“Do you know what they are?”

Q shakes his head. “They’re all listed under code names — strictly need-to-know — and I’ve been informed this isn’t my area. Which is true, actually,” he says, pushing up his glasses. “We’re just helping with bureaucratic forensics.”

Q scans the room again, noting the clusters of familiar and less-familiar faces — Agent Chowdhury is helping members of his team across several work stations as they follow manifest trails to sort out when the items may have disappeared. M has told them all to keep at it until six, at which point the majority of Q-branch, himself included, will be sent home to rest after the recent missions. A skeleton crew led by Zhuoting — who’s essentially R’s R — will remain to continue the search through the night, as well as monitor 002’s mission in Argentina. She and R will lead tomorrow, as Q's being forced home after working straight through two weekends.

Q turns subtly toward the agent, lowering his voice a bit. “I was wondering, Bond, if I could pop by yours tonight. I have an upgrade for your system ready to install.”

Bond looks up sharply, understanding that Q isn’t talking about a outdated iPad. “Of course. My tech is available to you any time. I should be home by six.”

“Might take a while,” he adds, decidedly not looking around to see who might be noticing the conversation. First rule of not appearing suspicious, he knows, is not looking like you care if anyone hears.

“Duly noted.” Bond picks up a random piece of tech off Q’s desk. “Best make it 6:30 then.”

Q nods and pointedly takes his tech back, saying a little louder, “Welcome back, 007, and thank you for returning your equipment in the same number of pieces I sent it in.”

“Consider it a fluke, Quartermaster,” he answers smoothly, hands in his pockets as he backs away and surveys the room again. He catches Chowdhury watching him and offers a frankly disturbing grin.

“Please stop terrifying my team, 007. Pip pip. Off you go.”

Bond takes the dismissal, sauntering to the door with a smirk. It’s a facade Q sees through now, but he can’t deny the effect it has on the rest of the room.

“Wanker,” he mutters, startling a laugh from a passing minion.

It’s closer to seven by the time he gets to Bond’s flat. Q’s relieved to see the facade completely dropped as James opens the door and ushers him in, taking his bag. “Come in, the curry’s cooling. I assumed all that talk of the installation taking time was to let me know you’d be staying for dinner or perhaps the night again.”

“Dinner, certainly,” Q agrees. “If I find what I’m looking for afterward, I might be able to go home at some point, but if not, I’ll probably want to monitor things live tonight, if that isn’t an imposition.”

Bond dishes up their plates and motions for Q to tuck in. “Not at all. As I’ve said, multiple times, now, I appreciate your attention to this issue.” He sets the plates down and sits himself. “So, what has you so eager? You didn’t say much over the comms other than that you had a theory.”

Q takes a bite of the curry, moaning obscenely. God, had he forgotten lunch again? This is divine. He stabs another piece of chicken with his fork and gesticulates as he states matter-of-factly, “You, Mr. Bond, have a phantom.”

James sags. “I know, Q. I’ve been trying to convince you—“

“—Not a poltergeists,” Q interrupts. “A _phantom_! A program that can slip into another program, execute, and then remove traces of itself. It’s a very good one, too. Very subtle. I had to go through my recording and the logs twice before I caught all the instances of meddling.”

“That’s… I didn’t know it was possible. How can a program delete traces of itself without leaving something in the cache, or whatever the equivalent of the trash would be in this system.”

“The phantom ‘empties the trash’, if you will. But you’re right, it can’t sit in the system. I’d have found it. It requires an active exploit. Which makes sense considering that it’s evolving.”

“English, Q.”

“There’s a device somewhere in this flat,” he says, waving his fork, “that has its own connection to the outside world, _and_ a Bluetooth signature the system recognizes and lets in. The phantom sits on the device, which is how it can erase traces itself from the system.”

“Okay.” Bond takes another thoughtful bite of his food. “Why Bluetooth?”

“Half the things the system controls or monitors — lights, window sensors — it accesses via Bluetooth. But there’s a security code in place… it won’t connect to just any device. I could turn on the wireless headphones I use on the tube, and they would become discoverable and start pinging at everything around trying to connect, but the system would ignore them because they aren’t coded.”

“But this device — with the phantom — has the code.”

Q nods.

“Which means—“

“— Which means someone within -6 is perpetrating this little horror show, and I’m going to _eviscerate_ them.”

Bond startles at Q’s passion, but smiles.

“What can I do?”

“After dinner — and this is _really_ good by the way, thank you — after dinner I need to see all your devices. Phones, tablets, hell _alarm clocks_ … anything that connects to the outside world for information. Once I find the phantom—”

“You’ll disable it?”

Q hates to cut across the hope in Bond’s voice. “I’ll run a trace to the source. We need to find who’s doing this. I need to create the trace such that this _traitor_ doesn’t notice. I can’t disable it, he’ll go underground and likely pop up later, in much more deadly form.”

“Right, of course. So, you’ll trace it back and…”

“Either find him or lay a trap.”

“Good plan. And when you get an address — a _physical_ address — I get to bring him in.”

That sounds like a potentially fatal idea. “One step at a time, Bond. I don’t know who it is, but they’ve been _in_ your flat, and only a few people have authorization for that and fewer would use it. I’m hoping this is a single person, but we can’t rule out…”

“Management?” Bond asks, eyebrows near his hairline.

“Anything.”

Bond looks decidedly grim.

“Probably best if we don’t discuss this at work. Or on any work device. Not until we have more evidence,” Q offers.

“Indeed.”

After several hours, Q discovers it’s not on any of Bond’s devices. Q even checks the chip in the electric _toothbrush_ for tampering. He’s staring at the pile of electronics on the coffee table, wondering if he should just start over, because it _has_ to be there.

Bond has been drinking scotch since Q moved onto the fourth device. As Q’s incredulity grows, so does Bond’s resignation and blood-alcohol level. That precious bottle of 18-year old Cardhu is now two-thirds gone. Q should really try it at some point, but he’s always attempting to work whenever it’s on offer.

At eleven, Bond gets up and disappears into the loo. Q’s gone through half the devices a second time by now, enough to be convinced he hasn’t missed anything. He hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t. And for once he wishes this puzzle were not quite such a challenge. It’s going to be a long night.

By the time Bond returns, showered and carrying a pile of blankets for the sofa — because Q is _obviously_ spending the night again — Q has hardwired his computer into the security system again and is using his phone to search for discoverable Bluetooth devices still operating now that he’s turned off everything in the pile of electronics. He can see the window sensors, lights and speakers, though they’re locked down and his phone can’t connect to them. He doesn’t see anything that shouldn’t be there. But since nothing “supernatural” is currently happening, that isn’t surprising.

Bond is tense, expression strained as if he’s just waiting for an attack. Not in a cool and collected 007 manner. There’s something almost… neurotic in the way his eyes dart around the room. Though Q supposes “it’s not paranoia if they’re really after you” probably applies in this situation. Still it’s unsettling to see Bond unsettled, and though he’s clearly trying to hold himself together, Q can see cracks forming in the facade.

“I’m going to bed, Q. Do you need anything?”

Q shakes his head. “I’m fine. Try to get some sleep, James.”

With a curt nod, Bond retreats down the hall. Q hears the door click shut, and settles in to keep watch over night.


	11. October 30

The door slams at one, startling a drowsy Q. He’s up in a flash, though, phone out, signal acquired and testing the range of the signal. He’s identified that he can’t see it from the kitchen or the entry. The signal is visible in the sitting room, but it drops away as Q backs down the hall toward the bedroom. He’s back in the sitting room again when he hears a wail from the bedroom. He turns in time to see Bond fling the door open, wild-eyed and almost sobbing, and pointing a gun directly at him.

“Bond?”

“No!” Bond’s eyes were darting around the hall, checking back behind him before refocusing on Q.

“James…” Q says cautiously, raising his hands.

“Q?” He seems to genuinely not recognize him, and that alarms Q far more than the flickering lights or strange sounds emanating all around them.

“Yes, it’s me James.” Q doesn’t dare move forward, though he’s desperate to reach out. What the bloody fuck is happening?

“But you died.” James almost sobs the words.

“I promise you—”

“I killed you. It was my fault!”

“James. You haven’t. You _wouldn’t_.”

“Take the shot. _Take the bloody shot!_ ” comes M’s command from somewhere behind Q. Now James does break into a sob.

Q shakes his head, eyeing the gun before meeting James’ gaze as steadily as he can. “James. It’s not really her.”

“I can’t lose you, too,” Bond pleads, gesticulating with the gun, and bloody hell the safety’s off and he’s going to kill one of them if he’s not careful.

“You won’t,” Q reassures, approaching slowly. “I’m right here, and we’re solving this together, like we’ve done so many times before.”

“But you were bleeding out. Again!” Bond’s expression has contorted into something pained and haunted, and as Q gets closer, he sees that Bond’s pupils are blown wide.

“Where?”

James motions behind him with the gun. “In there.”

Q reaches Bond now, fingers tracing along his hand to the gun, gently disarming him. “Okay,” he says, switching the safety back on. “Let’s look together, shall we?” he asks, trying to sound calm and reassuring through the cacophony and confusion of lights and noise.

Bond grasps at Q’s arm as they return to Bond’s bedroom. Of course, no one is bleeding out. And then the room is plunged into darkness.

They settle back in the sitting room, using the flashlight in Q’s phone. Bond allows himself to be led to the sofa, takes the glass of water Q offers, watches carefully as Q disconnects his computer from the security system. He continues to touch Q — first a hand on his wrist, then sitting close enough that their thighs and shoulders touch. Q doesn’t say anything about it as they sit and Q covers their legs with the blanket to fend off the chill, and then pulls his computer onto his lap. The recording shows exactly what Q experienced, and now Q knows that the signal has to be coming from this room. He eyes the bookcases, wondering where it’s hidden.

“I can’t...I don’t know what’s real,” Bond whispers, almost to himself.

Q sighs and rubs his eyes, trying not to acknowledge what that means...the implications for Bond’s career. He’s not going to think about it right now. They’re both exhausted, and have a lot of work to do if they’re going to catch this arsehole tomorrow. Q closes his computer, but when he leans forward to set it on the table, Bond grasps his arm.

“We’ll just stay here, yeah?” Q asks quietly looking into Bond’s worn face by the light of his phone. Bond nods hesitantly, and allows Q to rearrange the blankets so they can both lie down and be covered. He seems very still, whether because he’s uncomfortable laying beside Q or still distressed over the encounter, Q doesn’t know.

His mind is still running over the technological issues at hand when he feels Bond’s body relax and breathing even out. He risks a look at Bond’s face, illuminated by pale blue light coming through the window from the street. James’ expression is still troubled, even in sleep.

Bond can’t separate the real from the unreal, and that makes Q genuinely scared for the first time since this all started. He drifts off with James’ solid form beside him, his thoughts still swirling.

He wakes to sun streaming into the room and the warm weight on his chest shifting abruptly.

“Fuck. Q, what have I done to you?” and the weight is gone.

Q groans and opens his eyes. “Nothing,” he croaks, reaching for his glasses. Bond is crouched on the sofa near Q’s feet, eyes clear and assessing. Q props himself up on his elbows. “You didn’t do anything to me.”

“Why was I lying on top of you?”

“Presumably you were sleeping. Don’t you remember last night?” Q asks.

Bond’s eyes widen.

“No, not like… nothing _happened._ We just slept together — in proximity to each other — next to...oh bollocks. You understand.”

Q wishes desperately for a cup of tea.

“But why? I definitely went to bed in my room, and then…” his eyes widened again. “You were dead.”

“Clearly not.”

“But I saw...you and M both on the floor. And she was droning on about not regretting things and then you were there, not dead, and I wasn’t sure if you were a ghost, too.” His brows furrow. “But that doesn’t explain why I didn’t go back to my room.”

Q sits up and rubs his eyes. “You just seemed rather keen having physical evidence that I was alive. You kept touching me. I think you were taking my pulse some of the time. We were both shaken and exhausted and —”

Bond’s expression twists into something ugly. “Q, I don’t want you sharing my bed because you _pity_ me,” he snarls.

Q rears back as if slapped. “I don’t pity you. You are actually the _least_ pitiable person I know.”

“I’m losing my mind, Q.”

“No, you’re under _attack_ , James. Coordinated, premeditated, psychological attack. It’s quite different.”

“I’m seeing your body now too, Q. That’s not… that’s not _on._ ”

“No,” Q admits softly, combing fingers through his hair. “It’s not. But you’re completely lucid now. You’re lucid at work. Please don’t write yourself off just yet. I have no intention of doing so. As for sharing a bed...technically it was a sofa, and I’ll have you know I was a perfect gentleman while you were…” Q waves his hand, not wanting to articulate _altered_ or _raving_ or any of the other words that are coming to mind.

Bond huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “I have no doubt.” He studies Q a moment. “You’ve never walked away from me…” he murmurs, alluding to Q’s accusation the week before.

It’s far too early for this conversation. Q kicks off the covers and starts toward the kitchen.

Bond follows, because of course he does.

As Q flips the switch on the kettle, Bond says, “I want… I want you to know, Q. I had no idea you would take my exit on the bridge as walking away from _you_. Or that it would affect you in… well as it seems it did.”

It’s _really_ too early for this. Why isn’t the water boiling yet?

“Q?”

“If that’s true, Bond, I have to call into question your ability as a spy.”

There’s a pause, and Q looks up abruptly regretting his snark. But then Bond laughs, genuinely disarmed. “At the very least, it would seem I have a blind spot,” he agrees.

Q’s nodding to the kitchen counter. Bond’s blind spot is nothing to his, after all. “Don’t worry about it, Bond. I’m well aware that I’m not your type. And it’s easier lately. As much that I hate that all this is happening to you, I have enjoyed our dinners together — getting to know you better. It makes me less prone to…” He waves his hand. Project, he supposes. That had to be what he did before. He’s not unintelligent: he can usually tell the difference between flirting and real regard. He’s confident Bond cares for him on some level. Just not—

“Don’t presume to know my type, Q. It’s nothing to do with what you see on mission.” He reaches into an upper cabinet and puts a tin of tea next to the kettle — Q’s favorite — along with two mugs and strainers.

Q nods his thanks and busies himself. “I imagine it might have something to do with Dr. Swann, though.”

Bond stills. After a moment he responds, “She was closer, to be sure. Intelligent and beautiful, though not quite deadly enough for my tastes.” Bond seems to be looking at him quite intently, though Q can’t quite muster the will to meet his gaze.

“Anyway,” Bond continues. “I’m sorry for any pain I caused with my sudden departure, and I hope it’s clear _now_ how much I appreciate you… your friendship… and if I did _anything_ last night to make you uncomfortable or doubt my sincere—”

“You didn’t,” Q interrupts, finally sussing out what Bond is concerned over. He finishes making the tea and hands Bond his mug. “You were a perfect gentleman, as well, Bond, visions of my bloody corpse notwithstanding. You neither spurned me nor tried to pull me. So. That’s sorted.”

He takes a sip of his tea and grimaces. Too hot.

Bond smiles fondly and retrieves the milk from the fridge, offering it to Q.

“Ta,” he mutters, hoping to god he isn’t blushing as much as it feels like he is. He clears his throat. “So, before you came in brandishing a gun last night, I did manage to isolate the source of the signal to the sitting room. I’m hoping the device is just hidden among your possessions somewhere and we won’t have to look inside the walls or woodwork. If it was planted since you moved in, which seems most likely, whoever it was probably had very little time to accomplish it. So I’m assuming they couldn’t repair wall damage. We’ll start with the bookcases. I think.”

“After breakfast, Q.”


	12. October 30, after breakfast

There’s nothing in any of the books — they actually flip through each and every one to ensure the pages hadn’t been excavated to provide a hiding place for a small drive. Nor is there anything behind the various collectibles from far flung places. Q is particularly careful in shifting Jack from one side of his shelf to the other; he’d survived the first explosion, but been damaged before he came into Bond’s possession, and is now cracked and repaired in several places, including a long mark traversing his face.

“It’s alright, Jack,” Q murmurs as he slides the dog back into place. “We’ve all got our scars.”

They search all the other cabinets in the room, Q admiring a bottle of port in the drinks cabinet that Bond sets aside for after dinner. They unzip all the cushions covers and look for places where the cushions might have been opened and resewn. Bond turns all of the furniture over, looks for loose panels in the bookcases and even the inlay panels of the drinks cabinet. Q unscrews the entire security interface panel to see if something has been installed behind it. There is nothing.

But there has to be. Q has just about had enough of all his lovely theories being disproven at first confrontation with reality. When they’ve put the room more or less together again, and Bond has made sandwiches and poured them tall glasses of water, he asks, “Now what?”

“I need to code,” Q answers, voice thick with resignation. “Ideally we’d find the device. I’d likely be able to switch it on and find out the source of its communications. But if we can’t, I’ll have to prepare a rootkit to send back through when it’s activated remotely.”

“If this is really someone at MI6, won’t that mean you’re infecting us? Not very Quartermasterly.”

Q shakes his head dismissively. “I don’t plan anything so dramatic. It needs to be small enough that it won’t delay his very short bursts of activity. A DAT file maybe, that I can search for it on the other side. Or a very short program that can give me some information.”

“Why haven’t we done that already? Seems simpler than all this.”

“Well, it’s risky. If he sees it come across, or scans his machine regularly enough to notice something that doesn't belong there, we could tip him off and then where would we be? And it wouldn’t really be helpful if I didn’t either have control of the device or access to the source computer, and it’s only recently that I’m convinced of the latter. And if I have to search for it at the other end...well, there are thousands of computers and other devices associated with MI6. It will be looking for a needle in a smaller haystack, but a haystack nonetheless.” He stands and stretches, his back clicking as he does.

“Let’s go out first,” Bond suggests watching him closely.

“Where?” Q asks, though the question he’s really wondering is _why_.

“When was the last time you were out of doors?”

Q actually has to think a moment. “I walked to the tube station two days ago.”

“Right, and you’re going to get all engrossed in your coding project, and then it will get dark because autumn is upon us. I need activity. Let’s go for a run.”

“You want to run with me?”

“Why not? I have a three-mile circuit I normally do, but we could add to it in you need more distance. It’s going to start raining again tomorrow and we’ll both be stuck on treadmills. I assume you brought something to run in.”

“I...Just compression wear. I thought I might do my morning yoga if my neck started hurting. But it’s not really suitable for the cold.”

“I’ll lend you a jumper to start with.”

He should be coding. He should be searching the flat again. But inexplicably, he finds himself keeping pace with Bond as they head east and then north, ending up circling the various lakes in Hyde Park. Bond doesn’t try to talk. He just finds a pace they both find comfortable and leads Q through the park.

There’s something about all this that bothers him. Well, there are a lot of things about all this that bother him, but at the moment, there’s a thought tugging at his brain...just out of reach. Something about M’s voice. He’s heard it more than once now. And it’s the same. Not just similar, but the _same_. He nearly stumbles in his stride. It’s a recording. A recording of M, and he doesn’t know where the first bit is from… the part about regret being unprofessional — she said rubbish like that all the time, sodding iron Dame. But the other bit. The bit about taking the shot? He knows _exactly_ where that’s from. He imagines James does too.

That’s something he can trace. Those recordings… the mission logs. He knows where they’re stored He can see who’s had access. That should narrow things considerably.

And the smell. He hadn’t really noticed it last night, what with Bond waving a gun at him and being half out of his mind. But now that he thought of it, he had noticed M’s perfume. Even this morning, he now remembers the faint scent on the air. That’s something he can look for. Something tangible. Something to convince Bond that he’s not losing his mind.

He’s already gone through the video logs in Q-branch to see if anyone who doesn’t belong on the night shift happens to be there when Bond’s alarms are triggered. Of course no one is. From the angle of the cameras he can’t see what people are working on, but there hasn’t been any suspicious personnel in the middle of the night. He hasn’t checked the R&D spaces, though. They don’t all have cameras, but they all have codes on the doors. He can check that.

They are leaving the park now, Q barely aware of his surroundings, just following Bond’s lead. He sorts out how to write the script. Not a DAT file. Too laborious to search for that on the other end. He needs a short executable that will look up the network ID of the device and send it back to Q… preferably in a few ways so he can narrow down the source more quickly, He’s already coding it in his head as they get back to Bond’s flat, panting. Q realizes that Bond had sped up at the end. He braces his hands on his knees and concentrates on getting his breath back as Bond goes to the kitchen. A moment later, he’s accepting a glass of water.

“Showing off at the end, there, were you Bond?” he wonders, downing half the glass before looking up for an answer.

“Me? You could have gone another five miles, I’m sure. I had to sprint at the end just to avoid looking old and decrepit.”

There is absolutely _nothing_ old or decrepit about Bond’s muscular body. Q looks away sharply and takes another sip of water.

“Feeling better?” James asks.

“I…” Q looks at him — not his distracting body but his clear, knowing eyes and fond smile. “How did you know?”

Bond shrugs. “You said running clears your mind, and you were looking as frustrated as I felt after the search came up short. You carry your right shoulder high when you’re stressed. It seemed like taking an hour to regroup mentally and physically might keep us from spinning wheels later. Do you want the shower first?”

Q blinks and shakes his head, motioning for Bond to go ahead. “You know me so well?” Because really, he hadn’t even noticed his shoulder hurting earlier, but he knows it’s better now.

“Working on that blind spot,” James says as he walks down the hall stripping his shirt off.

No, not decrepit at all. _Bollocks_.

An hour later, they are both clean and working again. Q’s already pulled up the names of everyone who’s accessed the recordings of M’s old missions, but it turns out to be a rather long list. Or rather, it’s mostly members of Q-branch who were updating the archive architecture, so of course they were checking that things were working afterward, and Eve. But Q realizes Eve’s access was all tied to training for new agents, and _that’s_ a long list. Still it’s a start.

“Bond, do you have a toolkit?” Q asks as he starts coding the script for the rootkit. He’s pleased with his new plan. It’s much more elegant than what he’d considered before.

“Of course, but don’t you carry one everywhere too?”

“I do, but it’s for tech. Tiny little screwdrivers and such. Works well on glasses, too. But I need some more standard sizes if we’re to search your vents.

“My vents?”

“We should have done it earlier. M’s voice is obviously a recording, and I’d assumed that whoever hacked the system was using the built-in speakers, but the sound seems to come from everywhere at once—”

“I’ll get them,” Bond declares, a gleam in his eye. Bond’s always better when he has a purpose.

As Q continues to code, James methodically removes the cover of every vent in the flat, uncovering three wireless bluetooth speakers rigged to long-lasting lithium batteries. They are all on standby and not discoverable, but Q turns them each on and gets the device number for each when they try to connect to his computer. James is staring at them. They are, Q supposes the first real evidence that this isn’t all in Bond’s head. Q has believed from the beginning that there was a technological explanation, but this seems to be the first moment Bond really believes it.

“The perfume smell is in the vents, too,” Bond comments.

“Yes, I’d imagined it would be. Do you know where the air intake for the flat is?”

Bond shakes his head.

“Let me just pull up the plans for the building.”

It takes a while to find them, but then Bond is off, donning a “lost” earpiece so Q can stay in communication.

“I’ll remember this the next time you report equipment missing, 007,” he says over their make-shift comms.

“There goes my cover story,” Bond quips. He’s heading to the basement, and Q isn’t anticipating trouble, but listening in as he continues to code. If “M” shows up tonight, he’s going to have an elegant little present for her that will unravel this little horror show. That’s the plan, anyway.

“It’s definitely down here. I can smell it as soon as I open the door. I wonder if it’s driving my neighbors crazy, too.”

“It wouldn’t necessarily have the same emotional weight. And I suppose the scent is pleasant.”

“In small doses, which this is not. Christ. I never need to smell this again. Thank goodness M showed restraint in the amount she wore. At high concentrations it’s a bit more Aldi-does-Jo-Malone.” Q can hear Bond unscrewing the vent cover.

“Are you wearing gloves, Bond”?

“No, Q. I’ve never done anything like this before and thought I’d contaminate the evidence with my own fingerprints. Ah. Here it is. In diffuser form. No wonder. I’m going to put this in a resealable bag before bringing it up. Two, in fact.”

Q fights a smile. It’s good to see Bond’s mood improving now that they are finally uncovering some of the tricks used to haunt him.

“So, assuming that’s been in place for a while—”

“Which it has, based on the thickness of the air down here.”

“The system just had to turn the heat on for you to get a blast of heavily perfumed air. And since it’s been fairly warm so far this autumn, your neighbors haven’t been using the heat constantly and diluting the aroma.”

“Excellent theory, Q. Should I look for anything else while I’m here?”

Q considers that. “I don’t think so. I really think the device itself must be in your flat. Maybe they did open a wall or a wood panel. You’ve been gone so much — especially before this started — I suppose they could have had time to repair the sheetrock. Or...we never checked for loose floorboards.”

“Q, I’m pretty sure the floor is interlocking. But I’ll look when I get home.”

Something about that… Q knows James means his home, but for a moment, Q hears it differently — like it’s _their_ home — and his fingers falter.

Bond returns and drops the double-bagged bottle of perfume on the coffee table with the speakers — their growing pile of evidence that this is an attack and not a haunting.

“I’m going to start dinner,” Bond comments, removing his gloves. “Do you prefer lamb or beef?”

“You don’t need to go to trouble on my behalf, Bond.”

“Humor me, Q. I’m in a better mood than I’ve been in for several weeks.”

Q nods. “Then either is fine.”

By the time he has the rootkit written, the kitchen smells wonderful again. “How did I not know you were such a chef?” he questions, coming round the corner to see Bond in a chef’s apron and rolled up sleeves, _again_. He’s really never going to see aprons in quite the same way again.

“I usually have more important things to think about when I’m on mission, and that’s mostly what you know of me.” He motions for Q to take a seat.

“Not anymore.”

“No, not anymore.” Bond smiles and dishes up their food.

It’s fantastic. Possibly the best meal so far. Bond pours them each a modest glass of Burgundy that complements the beef perfectly.

They are both a little lost in their thoughts tonight, until Bond asks, “Do you think she’s right?”

Q quirks an eyebrow. “Who?”

“M. About regret being unprofessional.”

Q takes a sip of wine. “It may be a bit sacrilege, but no, I think she was dead wrong about that. I think regret is part of how we learn. Letting regret _paralyze_ you is unprofessional, perhaps — not to mention unhealthy — but if you allow it to drive you to be better, to make change, to—“

“Install defibrillators and heavy duty first aid kits throughout a building?” Bond suggests with a small smile.

“Or completely update and formalize the procedure for accessing hostile tech within the firewall,” Q answers bitterly, because no, he _hasn’t_ forgotten his role in M’s death, thank you very much. And if Bond is now suffering because of some exploitable bit of his system, he’ll learn from this as well, and try to ensure Bond doesn’t meet M’s fate.

Bond’s expression softens, but he doesn’t pursue the topic.

“I miss her,” he says instead. “We weren't close, really — I can’t imagine going for drinks with her — but, I don’t know. I won’t press you about your family, but if you do still have some, I’m pleased for you. We all need something to connect us to this world... beyond spite and duty.”

“And she was yours.”

“I suppose she was. Not the only one, perhaps, but for a long time, the most vital.”

Q nods. It’s not surprising, but somehow the confession feels precious.

“I have an aunt and uncle still living, and two cousins I saw regularly as I grew up,” he blurts out, startling a smile out of Bond. “My aunt is a brilliant mathematician, and my mother was bright as well, but not very stable. Brilliance and madness run in my family in equal parts, and I find myself constantly on the lookout for both, in myself and others.”

“Your cousins?”

Q considers with a smirk, “A bit of each, to be honest, but both arguably functioning members of society.”

“A search for brilliance and madness is why you’re here, obviously.”

“Actually, it’s why I _know_ , James, that whatever…” he searches for a polite term.

“Call it what it is, Q.”

“Fine. Whatever _psychoses_ you’re experiencing have an exterior initiation. You have never been unstable, in my experience.”

“I know several medical professionals who would take issue with that assessment,” James comments.

Q shrugs. He knows it’s true. “Well, their medical degrees notwithstanding, I would guess they don’t have a lot of personal history. We are all products of our experience. You are called upon to do some… really, quite horrific things, at times, for Queen and Country. If they don’t like that it’s made you rather perfunctory about death — most death — then they aren’t being reasonable. It seems to me that response is logical and completely within the realm of expectation, and _quite_ different from these unsettling visions you’ve been having in the middle of the night.”

Bond ponders that. “So you’d argue that the visions are internal, but triggered by external stressors and manipulations, and once the latter are lifted the former will disappear?”

Q nods and takes a sip of wine.

James shakes his head ruefully. “I hope you’re right, Q, but to be honest, I’ve always lived under a lot of stress, and I’ve never seen things that weren’t there. Missed things that were, perhaps, but never saw things that weren’t. I feel fine during the days, and it’s better when you’re here, to be honest. But when I’m alone, at night...maybe it’s just because I know it’s coming, but it’s like my thoughts go in circles, like they’re crawling to get out.”

Damn. That does sound a bit like his mum. He picks up his wine and sighs.

“One threat at a time, James. Let’s neutralize whoever is meddling with your system and get them contained. Then we can see what’s left in the detritus.”

“Here’s to it not being torn and tattered agents.”

They both drink to that.


	13. Late October 30/Early October 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this bled into November. RL etc. There will be one more chapter — an epilogue called November — but this is the last chapter of the main story. Thank you for reading.

They play Cribbage, because they have everything prepared for tonight, but are too wound up for sleep just yet. James pours them each some of the port Q had eyed earlier, and it’s relaxing and oddly competitive. James tells stories of his time in the Royal Navy — how Euchre was the game of choice, but if they couldn’t pull together four players, the Cribbage board would come out. Q is fairly certain he is meant to be distracted by all this talk of Bond in a uniform, but he’s onto it, and counters with stories of all-night coding and card sessions in uni in various states of undress. In the end, Q wins, and James looks more pleased than annoyed, as if Q has surprised him again. He seems more relaxed than Q remembers seeing him for a long time.

“So,” Q starts as they put away the cards, deciding that as awkward as the request will be, Bond will likely appreciate a direct approach. “I was wondering if you’d trust me with your gun tonight.”

Bond freezes momentarily, and then sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“It’s just that—”

“I almost shot you last night.”

“A bit, yeah.”

Bond huffs a laugh. “Yes, I almost shot you a bit. I’ll just get it.”

He returns and hands Q the gun, watching with an odd expression as Q expertly checks it and then puts the safety on.

“I was also thinking that perhaps we could both stay in here tonight.”

“Q, you don’t have—”

“I’m aware of what I do and do not have to do, James,” Q says firmly, making it clear, he hopes, that this isn’t pity. “I would like to already be together when the theatrics start tonight. I may need your help monitoring windows as I lay the trap. I promise to be a gentleman.”

“I’m not… I’m not _worried_ , Q. I just wish…” He looks away, putting his hands on his hips.

“What?” Q asks gently.

Bond grimaces and shakes his head. “Nothing. I’ll go get dressed for bed and bring the blankets in. Do you need help setting everything up?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll get the computer connected and prepare it to record.”

The awkwardness seems to have dissipated by the time Bond returns in sleep pants and a t-shirt with the linens. Q excuses himself to the loo and takes his time changing and washing his face and teeth, mulling over the steps to execute the rootkit and catch whoever’s doing this. He’ll have to be fast, but he’s sure he can mirror the attacking computer and record it from one desktop while using the other. He tested it this afternoon, but without the open connection the test was incomplete. Still, Q is confident.

By the time he returns, the lights are out in the sitting room except for the glow from Q’s computer on the coffee table. He rounds the corner to find the sofa already made up, Bond lying with his eyes closed, back up against the cushions leaving ample space in front of him for Q. The covers are even pushed down a bit as if to invite him in.

Something twists in Q’s chest. He suddenly realizes he’s not going to get _any_ sleep. Between his mind being abuzz with the details of the operation and this longing growing in his heart, he can tell it’s going to be a total loss. He’s just—

“Are you just going to stare, or are you coming to bed?”

Q nearly jumps out of his skin as James opens one eye, smiling as he sees Q’s hand on his heart. Bond holds the covers open for Q, and after a moment’s hesitation he slips in, his back to Bond. He feels James move forward, his arm settling around Q’s waist. The sofa’s small after all, Q reminds himself.

“This okay?” James asks, breath tickling his nape. Q can’t contain the shiver that runs through him.

“Yes.” Q forces himself to relax.

“Good,” James murmurs, and after a few moments his breath starts to even out.

No. Q is definitely not getting any sleep tonight. And he’s not going to complain. He’s… well, he’s probably just going to memorize how this feels for a while. It’s unbelievably nice. And he savors it, all the while wanting more. He wants to link his fingers through Bond’s and pull his hand up tight to his chest. He wants to turn in James’ arms and press their lips together, wrap his arms around that strong back. He wants _far_ fewer clothes between them. But he stays where he is, his back just barely touching James’ chest, the weight of Bond’s arm resting against his hip. The trusting puffs of breath against the nape of his neck. It’s more than he ever expected, and he’ll not ruin it with wishes for more.

It’s maybe an hour later when Bond’s arm tightens around him. He’s making distressed sounds in his sleep, his body jerking and twitching. Nightmares.

Q is trying to decide what to do when the entire flat lights up and M’s voice starts in on them about professionalism and not trusting anyone, and Q is up and typing on his computer as quickly as he can. He sees the connection between the source and the security system and piggybacks the rootkit back through the link. Then he waits — five seconds, ten seconds — and then he receives a message from the program with the IP address, network ID — _everything_ — and his fingers are flying again. Creating a mirror. Starting the recording.

“I’ve got him. We’ve got him, James!”

He switches to a new desktop, confident the recording on the mirror is operating in the background, and remotely brings up the controls for the web camera.

“Who the fuck are you?” he mutters as he activates the camera and _not_ the activation light. No one is there, but he can see a room. “ _Where_ the fuck are you?” he asks no one, starting a recording on this window, too.

“It looks like R&D Lab 2,” he tells Bond as he grabs his phone, eyes never leaving the screen. He dials with one hand while executing a lockdown of Q-branch on his computer with the other.

“Q?” comes the bleary voice. “It’s one in the morning.”

“I’ve initiated a silent lockdown in Q-branch. We have a _oh you bloody, fucking arse!”_

“Q!”

“Sorry, Eve. I just _finally_ know who’s been doing this.” Markham’s face is illuminated in blue light in the video window. He’s eating _pizza_ and reading something on the screen.

“Doing what? Q, you aren’t making any sense. And what the bloody hell is that noise? Where are you? Is that M’s voice?”

“I’m at Bond’s. That’s the hack. This happens almost every night he’s home — has been for _weeks_. And I’ve just proven it’s Markham’s doing. The evidence is being recorded on my laptop.” He’s suddenly sure the nights that Bond wasn’t visited by “M” were the ones Markham was in the field. He’ll check that later. “But I don’t think Markham is working alone. The signal is being relayed down to Lab 2, but the primary connection is somewhere else in Q-branch. The network number for the machine is one of ours, but I don’t know whose.” The betrayal is rising thick in his throat. He’s going to take _great pleasure_ in taking out whichever of his minions is facilitating this treachery. “Can you get to headquarters and take everyone currently in Q branch into custody? I’ll see if I can’t narrow it down more from here.”

“I’m already dressed. And I’ll call M. Is Bond okay? You’re with him?”

“Yes, he’s…”

Q turns to look at Bond for the first time since the lights came on. He’s still lying on the sofa, eyes closed through this cacophony. Back arched. Lips tinged blue.

“Fuck. I’ll call you back.” He disconnects the call and drops the phone on the table. “Bond!”

He scrambles toward James, feeling for a pulse. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

The sofa’s too soft. He shoves at the table to clear space on the floor and drags Bond to the hardwood.

“We just figured this out, James. You are _not_ fucking dying on me now.” He laces his own fingers, both palms down, and places them over James heart. “One, two, three, four…” he counts as he does compressions. At twenty he give James a deep breath — and this is not _at all_ what he meant when he wished he could press his lips against James’ — and starts with compressions again. On the third cycle, he reaches for his phone, scrolls quickly through the contacts and places a call, switching to speaker so he can continue CPR.

It rings only three times before a rough voice answers “Atherton?” barely loud enough to hear over the noise of the room.

“Mycroft, I need your help,” he shouts between compressions.

His tone changes immediately — efficient and direct. “What do you need?”

“An ambulance that will take a friend to a secure medical facility... somewhere you trust.” He gives Bond another breath and starts on compressions again. “Somewhere—”

Bond arches and takes a gasping breath.

“Oh, thank Christ,” Q chokes. He looks around the room, gaze falling on a glass he hadn’t seen the night before. He sniffs at it and recognizes the aroma immediately. The scotch. Bond must have had a nightcap while Q was cleaning his teeth. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. “Mycroft?”

“I’m here. What’s the address?”

Q gives it and adds, “You need to take us somewhere they can test for nerve agents, in the patient and in a bottle of scotch I’ll bring.”

“Bond’s been poisoned?”

He’s never said he’s at Bond’s, but he’s not surprised that Mycroft recognizes the address. “For weeks. I’m an idiot. I was so focused on the technological threat I missed this.”

“And you don’t want to take him to Medical?”

“He’s being poisoned by someone _in_ -6. I still don’t know how far the plot reaches.”

“Understood.” Q listens to Mycroft give instructions on another phone as he watches Bond’s breathing become regular and consciousness crawl to the surface. His hand is still on Bond’s chest and he can’t bring himself to move it. James’ eyes are blinking open as Mycroft explains, “The ambulance is seven minutes out. They will come up to the door and have been advised that the patient has been unconscious and that you are to be allowed in the ambulance with him. One of my best military medical specialists will meet you at Royal Brompton. Can you tell me what she’s looking for?”

“A psychotropic,” Q speculates, eyes still on Bond’s face. “Something that causes hallucinations. It’s not a depressant, but it made his heart stop, so… I don’t know. Something toxic enough to cause organ failure at chronic doses.”

“How long has he been exposed?”

“Roughly four weeks, I think, though not every day. I—”

The lights suddenly go out, and all the noises and M’s voice stop as well. The abrupt silence is almost oppressive.

“Atherton?”

“Hold on.”

He moves to stand, but James’ hand grasps at his wrist.

“Just turning on the lights” he whispers, dropping a quick kiss on James’ forehead before rising and finding the switch.

It’s funny how the room looks completely normal — pleasant even — with the lights on.

“The ambulance is three minutes out now, and I’ve relayed your message about the psychotropic agent. Do you require any other assistance? Would you like me to meet you there?”

“That’s not necessary, Mycroft. Thank you for your concern.”

“I’ll check in with you you before lunch then, shall I?”

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

The line goes dead, and Q is beside James again, watching for signs he’s in distress. His eyes are darting around the room, but when they land on Q, he relaxes slightly.

“Q… cracked.”

“You’re not. Don’t talk like that. We’re getting you to hospital and we’ll purge whatever this is from your system.”

James shakes his head and tries again, this time looking into Q’s eyes. “He’s cracked.”

“Who’s—”

But then he knows. He’s up in a flash, gently removing Jack from the shelf and bring him back to the coffee table, tipping him to look at the bottom. Sure enough, there’s a gap in the porcelain that’s not meant to be there — a piece that went missing during Jack’s reconstruction. It’s small, though. Too small for most devices. Still it’s a _perfect_ hiding spot, so he has to try. His index finger fits in to the second knuckle, and he just makes out something affixed to the bottom surface on the inside.

“You’re right,” he observes, glancing at Bond’s face. “There’s something in there.” James is watching him with intense concentration, visually clinging to his presence, and Q scoots a bit closer so his knees touch Bond’s side where he’s kneeling between the man and the table. He opens his tool kit, still out from last night, and removes a medium pair or angled forceps, hoping they’ll fit. He uses them to explore the gap, and they just reach the object he felt. A moment later, a very familiar prototype drops onto the table. It wasn’t designed for this, but Q can immediately imagine the steps that would be necessary to adapt the tech, and who he’d seen fiddling with it.

“Bugger. I liked her.”

He calls Eve again.

“Q, is everything alright?”

“Make sure you hold Markham _and_ Anderson. I just located a piece of tech she was working on that allowed them to infiltrate Bond’s security system and use the controls to orchestrate the hauntings.”

“The _what_?”

“I’ll explain everything later. The ambulance will be here any moment. I’m not coming in, Eve, I’m going to the hospital with James.”

“You’re not bringing him to Medical?”

“James Bond will not set _foot_ in that building until I’ve determined how far this goes. I was hesitant to call _you_ , Eve.”

That gives her pause. “Where are you taking him?”

“Somewhere vetted by someone I trust. I’ll bring my computer. I’m trusting _you_ to take care of things at -6. And Eve, I need a list of the nerve agents that have gone missing — not code names — I need chemical formulae.”

“What, _why_? That’s need-to-know, Q.”

“Well, _I_ need to know, because I suspect I’ve found some masquerading in a bottle of scotch Bond doesn’t remember buying. And I imagine we’ll have an easier time getting it out of Bond’s system if there’s at least a short list of what to look for.”

“Bloody hell,” Eve curses. “This is your secure phone, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll send it, but you’d best just say these are the possibilities and not that they’ve gone missing. M’s going to think you’ve gone a bit rogue as it is, but—”

“I didn’t know who might be involved. Still don’t, actually. _Everyone_ was quite irate with him at first.”

“I know, Q, and I’ll work on M. Just be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

She scoffs.

“The ambulance is here,” he announces as the bell rings.

“I’ll handle -6,” she assures. “You take care of our boy.”

He lets the paramedics in after reviewing their identification, and watches for a moment as they take Bond’s vitals and ask him questions, which he’s answering in slurred, incomplete sentences. Satisfied that James is in good hands and needing to be ready when they take him to the ambulance, Q packs his bag: his computer, toiletries — some for Bond as well — tools he’s left on the table. He tells the paramedics of his suspicions about the bottle of Cardhu, and watches as they bag it for testing. He takes pictures of Jack, showing the opening in his base and the crumbs of dried glue that had come out when he’d dislodged the prototype. He photographs the tech spread out on the table and then bags some of it as well — examples of the Bluetooth speakers and the prototype — before packing them into his bag.

He doesn’t know who has access to the flat, and he’s not risking any evidence disappearing on him. He gets his coat and laces his trainers.

“You’re coming too, sir?” one of the paramedics inquires as they pack up their equipment.

He turns and sees James watching him intently from behind an oxygen mask.

“I’m not leaving his side,” Q confirms, throwing his coat on over his pajamas and hitching his bag onto his shoulder.


	14. November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the epilogue, and now my first 00q story is finished. Thank you so much for taking this journey with me. And thanks to Ducky and jaimistoryteller for betaing throughout the story.

**November 1**

_10:22 p.m. GMT_

     Q: I’ve cleared R.

     EM: That’s a relief.

     Q: She can help you clear up the mess there while I continue sorting things from here.

     EM: You should rest, Q.

_10:26 p.m. GMT_

     EM: Any word on our boy?

     Q: He’s still out, though the transfusion was successful.

     Q: His heartbeat is strong.

     EM: I’m sure he’ll be fine.

     Q: Of course he will.

     EM: So you should rest.

_10:31 p.m. GMT_

     EM: Q?

     Q: Go to sleep, Moneypenny.

 

**November 2**

_9:13 a.m. GMT_

     Q: Chowdhury’s clear.

     EM: M will be pleased to hear it. R cleared Collins, Wu, and Crombie. And Alec, of course.

     Q: Good.

     EM: He’d like to visit, by the way. Alec, that is.

     EM: Q?

     Q: There’s no point yet.

_09:27 a.m. GMT_

     EM: Understood.

 

**November 4**

For the record, Q _has_ slept. The armchair in the corner, it turns out, is more comfortable than it looks.

He’s rested. He’s eaten. He’s worked. He’s even bathed. And changed clothes.

He just hasn’t left the suite.

To be fair, no one has really asked him to. He has his secure phone and laptop and can create a hotspot and VPN into the system, and with Mycroft’s goons outside this private hospital suite seems more secure than most of MI6 at the moment. When Q receives the toxicology reports on both Bond and the bottle, he forwards them to M. He correlates activities of Anderson and Markham with the times of the “hauntings” and lays out the case for their guilt. And he helps to sift through the rest of the agents and minions to sort out who else might be involved. It’s slow work, but Q is driven by rage as he documents Anderson’s betrayal and Markham’s treachery, and relief with each additional minion he clears.

Both efforts feel righteous.

Both help fend off the feelings of impotence and desolation. He didn’t protect Bond — not well enough — but he can wreak silent destruction on those who perpetrated these crimes while watching over Bond’s too-still body. Causing devastation to others distracts him from… well distracts him. And keeps him from hacking the cell where Markham is being kept and compromising the climate controls. Or oxygen levels.

That’s not actually possible, but the fact that Q checked probably says something about his vindictive nature.

It might also explain why M hasn’t insisted he come back in. He can’t poison anyone from the hospital.

More’s the shame.

It’s late, and Q really doesn’t know how much he’s slept over the last few days. He knows it hasn’t been more than a few hours at a time. He knows he’s growing sluggish as a result. Even so, Q’s cleared ten more minions today...tonight. Whatever. He rubs his eyes under his glasses and sighs. He should sleep. The sound of the heart monitor is soothing… like a metronome. Surely it can soothe him to sleep. He could try counting the beeps like sheep.

Again.

Of course, Q has his own nightmares now. His own instinct to avoid sleep. Endless compressions that never lead to that gasping breath or steady beat. He drags the chair closer to Bond’s bed and curls up, computer charging on the table beside him. As exhausted as he is, he knows better than to think he can will himself to sleep, even if the only light in the room comes from medical equipment. He opens an article in the MIT Technology Review on botnets and security fails on his phone and starts to read.

 

**November 5**

“Q?”

Q opens his eyes to meet an arctic blue gaze.

His phone clatters to the floor as he scrambles to the bed.

“James!”

Bond licks his lips, slowly, glancing around the room.

“Do you need water?” Q asks, because his lip look dry and he keeps trying to moisten them.

A quick nod has Q reaching for the plastic cup of water and raising the head of Bond’s bed so he can sip from the straw without spilling. When Bond’s had his fill and lays back against the pillow again, Q puts the cup back on the table and says, “I’ll just go get a doct—”

“Wait!”

Q freezes and turns back to Bond, who is looking around the room, confusion apparent. “This isn’t Medical,” he states, looking out the window at the sun streaming into the room.

“No. No, it’s… how much do you remember?”

Bond shakes his head, brows furrowed. “It’s jumbled. M. And you at my flat on the computer…”

“We were laying a trap for the person who was hacking your security system and playing her voice,” Q suggests, hoping it will spur Bond’s memory. Bond nods, but it seems more like accepting Q’s word than remembering on his own. “Well, I found him — them really — “

“It really was all tech?” Bond looks incredulous. “But I… I think I _saw_ her.”

“I’m sure you did. They drugged you, James. Those missing nerve agents? Two were found in your bottle of scotch.” James eyes widened. “They’re both dense and didn’t mix well, so the further you got toward the end of the bottle, the higher the dose you got. That’s why your hallucinations got worse...well that and the sleep deprivation. And the last dose was… that is, you...uh, you lost consciousness. And the hack originated within MI6 and I didn’t know who might be involved, so I arranged for alternate accommodations,” Q finishes, motioning about the sunny room. “Now, I really need to get your doct—”

“Who?”

Q sighs, looking down at his own hands tightening on the metal railings of the bed. “James—”

“Who, Q?”

Q pursed his lips. “One of the new agents, and a minion of Q-branch. They’re both in custody, so neither you nor I get to kill them. That’s all we know for sure, but R and I are still searching through the records — M, Eve, and Alec are all cleared, and R obviously...I checked her first. But you won’t be entering Medical until I’m satisfied that you’ll be safe there.”

Bond relaxes and nods.

“Shall I go get your doctors now? They’ll be quite pleased you’re out of your coma.”

James eyes widen again, but he nods. “You’ll come back, too?”

“Of course, James,” Q assures, absently touching James’ arm.

Bond flinches violently, and Q freezes. He straightens and puts his hands on the railing again, carefully searching Bond’s face. It’s wary, but he supposes considering what James just learned and went through, that’s not terribly surprising. Clearing his throat and putting on his most professional voice, he declares, “I’ll see you through this, 007. I’ll stay with you until such time as it’s safe for you to return to the care of MI6.”

Something uncertain crosses Bond’s expression, but he nods, and Q feels relief.

The doctors are very excited to see Bond awake, and after trying to shoo Q out of the room (“He’ll be staying,” Bond insists), perform multiple tests while they explain the close call his liver had combating the increasing doses of multiple toxins, that memory issues were to be expected, but should be temporary and limited to the time the drugs were in his system. They tell him that he’ll be on a limited diet and no alcohol for a number of weeks to allow his liver to recover (“That’s fine — I’m rather put off by scotch at the moment”), but they don’t anticipate long-term issues. Likewise, they say, his heart doesn’t seem to have sustained long-term damage.

“My heart?” Bond interrupts. “Why would my heart be affected?”

The lead doctor reviews the chart. “You were brought in after cardiopulmonary resuscitation. It’s not uncommon for liver damage to provoke pulmonary complications, including heart failure. But it appears it was due to the acute dose of toxins and liver strain, not longstanding tissue damage. You’ll need to pace yourself for a while as you start exercising again, but we don’t anticipate an impairment.”

“How long?”

“Until your heart recovers? I’d imagine a few weeks after you’re back on your feet.”

“No. How long was my heart stopped?”

All the doctors in the room turn to Q, and Bond’s gaze follows.

God, those moments when he first started CPR to the point that Bond started breathing… it felt like a lifetime, but was it even a minute? And then before he looked over — when he’d been focused on his computer — how long had that been?

“A minute,” Q offers, “maybe two. The alarm went off and I was focused on the computer for a bit before looking over and realizing you weren’t up with me.”

Bond’s brow furrows. “But if the alarm woke you, how can you know I hadn’t stopped breathing before that?”

Q remembers the weight of Bond’s arm around him, the puffs of breath on the nape of his neck, how Bond had held him tighter and whimpered in his sleep before ‘M’ started in on them.

“You were definitely breathing right before the security system went crazy.”

Bond raises his eyebrows, and Q feels color rise in his cheeks.

“And you think I’ll make a full recovery?” Bond asks, turning back to the doctor. “My job requires a certain athleticism.”

“Just be careful as you regain your strength, but yes, we anticipate your body making a full recovery. Your memories are a bit of a different matter. There’s no long-term brain damage — your memory going forward should be fine, though we’d like to continue running tests. But your memories from the period you were dosed may never fully return, or may be entwined with the hallucinations.”

Bond nods and questions the doctors further, getting clarity on how long he’s been in a coma, what sort of effects the drugs might have caused while they were in his system — both chronic and acute effects — when Q spots his phone on the floor next to the bed. He retrieves it.

_8:17 a.m. GMT_

     Q: Bond’s awake.

     EM: Thank god. And?

     Q: Talking with doctors.

     EM: Talking is good. He seem himself?

Q doesn’t know how to answer that. Bond seems himself as he was — barriers up and wary — not as Q grew to know him during the time that he was drugged. Though he hasn’t asked for privacy.

     EM: Q?

     Q: Seems so.

     EM: M or I will come by today.

     Q: I’m sure he’ll be delighted. We need to go through the medical staff and determine if it’s safe to bring him in, now that he’s out of crisis and can be moved.

     EM: I’m on it. Will have a report for you by the end of the day.

     Q: Ta.

He pockets the phone and realizes the room is clearing and Bond is watching him again. The way a double-oh watches people. He straightens under the scrutiny.

“You saved my life.”

Q tilts his head in acknowledgement.

“You…” Bond’s expression shifts to concentration, obviously sorting through muddled memories. “You take first aid very seriously.”

Q nods again. “I explained about the situation in Q-branch after the explosion,” he adds.

“Yes.” He obviously remembers that conversation. “And… and you wrote a trap… a rootkit, you called it...”

“That’s right,” Q verifies. “And it worked. We got him. I was starting to celebrate before I realized you weren’t breathing. For future reference, 007, it’s impolite to frighten your Quartermaster like that when he’s just made a breakthrough.”

That startles a laugh out of Bond. “Interrupted your victory dance, did I? I’m sorry to have missed that, Quartermaster.”

“Quite,” Q admonishes, adjusting his glasses.

Bond’s smile fades. “And you haven’t left this hospital since we arrived.” It’s a statement, one that shows far too much understanding.

Q’s phone rings, and he’s never felt quite so grateful for a distraction.

“M,” Q answers. “Yes, he’s right here.” He hands Bond the phone. “Time to debrief, 007.”

It’s the last of their time alone. Doctors and visitors from MI6 demand Bond’s attention whenever he’s awake. Bond is transferred to medical by eleven that evening, after Eve and R’s report and Q’s confirmation of a few video logs, and Q is firmly sent home to sleep.

 

**November 9**

Q doesn’t visit Bond the first few days he’s back to work. He has a department to get back in order. In addition to Anderson’s outright duplicity, he’s identified two other breaches that were likely negligence: a dodgy log entry for the R&D labs that Carmichael had noticed but not reported, and spillage of a classified document onto a nonclassified server. That last one details the locations of several weapon stores, including a cache of confiscated nerve gas. The employee responsible for the spillage loses his clearance level and is demoted, but not prosecuted.

Q, however, takes the breach personally, and forces his entire department to go through information handling training again, whether they have clearance or not. It is perhaps overkill, but when the minions whinge he remembers Bond’s gasping his first breath after CPR and becomes immovable. And though they don’t know all of the details of what happened, whatever they see in his face resigns them to the training and additional safety protocols.

The additional vials of nerve agent are located and returned to their stores based on information Markham gives under questioning, and he was apparently stupid enough to leave fingerprints, so between that evidence and the recordings from Q’s laptop, the case against him appears water-tight.

It’s a bit trickier to nail down evidence against Anderson, but Q delves through the logs ruthlessly and provides a pattern of access — times both she and Anderson were in Q-branch when neither of them had express need — as well as her activity reviewing the old recordings of missions containing M the former’s voice. Then he attacks her hard drive. She’s been careful, because she’s _good_ — which is why Q feels the loss so profoundly — but she’s not as good as Q. He reconstructs her deleted files and finds the snippets of audio she’s patched together, complete with timestamps he can add to the chronology.

Of course, neither of them is being charged with treason, since they attacked a member of Her Majesty’s secret service and not Her Majesty herself, but MI6 has enough evidence to put them both away for a significant amount of time. The motive appears to be self-interest in Markham’s case — he didn’t like being benched for double-oh status when Bond returned — and infatuation on Anderson’s part. M the current seems particularly keen to make examples of them, and insists an inquiry be launched at MI5 as well. And he seems particularly disturbed they used M the former — both her words and her bequest — as a means to attack Bond. Entire meetings of senior staff are dedicated to the question of how much agents should know about each other, but little in the way of changed procedures seem obvious.

Q sends his last report of the night to M and closes a series of open files, locking them down. Despite having cleared the rest of his staff, he feels distrustful and on alert. This is how Bond operates most of the time, Q imagines. He finds he doesn’t like it much. He misses the camaraderie of his team, though he’s sure it will return in time.

He rubs his eyes under his glasses and glances at the clock. Debating for a moment, he gives into his impulse and hacks the camera in Bond’s room in Medical. Alec is sitting with him and they are both smiling. Bond looks… good. Relaxed. The circles under his eyes have faded. Q hasn’t made it down to visit him yet, but he has sent a collection of books to him — taken from Bond’s own flat when Q completed the sweep to ensure they’d found and collected all the after-issue technology. Q sees them stacked on the bedside table, a bookmark apparent in the topmost volume. Q itches to hack the medical files and reassure himself that Bond is recovering, but he knows that with the increased scrutiny electronic access is under at the moment, any interference might be noticed. And given his own harsh treatment of his minions, frowned upon, no matter if his motives are purely Quartermasterly.

And, no, he doesn’t actually believe that. But he’s faced with the idea that Bond’s apparent intimacy — if the lowering of walls can be called that — may have been drug-induced. And that Bond may regret what portions of it he even remembers. Q is torn between reconstructing his own barriers to ensure he isn’t hurt again and giving Bond a chance to recover and decide for himself how much of their… camaraderie, perhaps… was professional or friendship or something more.

When Q closes his eyes he can still feel James’ breath on the back of his neck, the weight of James’ arm on his waist. _That_ , it seems, Bond is unlikely to remember, given the dose he had that night. It’s probably just as well, but Q can’t help but feel the loss.

He looks back up at the screen to see Alec leaving. Bond stares into space for a moment, pensive, and then looks directly into the camera. Q jumps, wishes for a moment that the feed were in color so he could see the blue in James’ eyes, and shuts down the connection.

 

** November 12 **

_8:37 p.m. GMT_

     MH: Mummy wants to know if that article on neural network theory was yours. She says the use of non-linear thresholds for perceptron aggregation was ‘elegant’.

     AS: Aunt Elinor shouldn’t spread such conspiracies.

     MH: Asking me is hardly spreading conspiracies. Shall I tell her you can neither confirm nor deny?

     AS: I’m not you. Fine. Tell her thank you.

     MH: Sherlock says this new alias is the worst one yet, and I have to agree.

     AS: He would. And you haven’t cottoned on yet, have you?

     MH: I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.

     AS: Well, with another alias or two it will be more apparent. Tell Sherlock congratulations on the latest. I saw the writeup in the Times.

     MH: I am not a carrier pigeon.

     AS: And yet you started this text with a message.

     MH: Mummy doesn’t text. Sherlock, on the other hand prefers it to all other means of communication.

     AS: Fine. I’ll tell him myself.

     MH: And how is the agent? It seems the breach was more confined than we first feared.

     AS: Recovering. As to the rest, I can neither confirm nor deny.

     MH: Very well, cousin. Shall we expect you for dinner on the 2nd? Mummy is apparently going to some trouble just on the rumor we might all attend.

Q rubs his eyes under his glasses and looks around his flat. Ada is curled up with him on the sofa, but it still feels quiet and bit lonely.

     AS: Maybe. Baring a mission pulling me in.

     MH: I’ll let her know.

 

**November 15**

Q nearly panics when he hacks into the camera in Bond’s room and finds it empty. Not just missing Bond himself — that’s happened several times as he’s gone off for CT scans or psych evaluations or whatnot — but all evidence of Bond. His books, puzzle magazines, flowers and cards from well-wishers are all gone. Q scrambles to access the logs and sees he’s been released from medical, but hasn’t left the building.

He searches the camera feeds through the building, checking all the places he’s located Bond over the last week: the pool, the gym, physical therapy. He’s not anywhere. He checks the antechamber to M’s office. No Bond.

He’s starting to search the garage levels when he hears a “Welcome back, sir” from one of the minions and looks up to see 007 strolling into the branch. He hastily closes down all the security feeds.

“007,” he greets, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your company? I’m sure M isn’t sending you out yet.” Bond’s not in a suit, but in a black turtleneck and fatigues, as if he were venturing out on night ops.

“Q,” Bond returns with a small smile. “Well, since the Quartermaster of MI6 is too busy anymore to make house calls, I thought it best if I make the overture.”

Q feels heat rise in his cheeks. “Bond I—”

“I know you’ve been busy, Q. Eve’s told me a bit about the investigation. And I suspect you’ve had other means of checking on me.” Bond eyes the camera in the corner meaningfully.

Bollocks.

“Yes, well. I’m...I’m glad to see you up and about, Bond.”

“Thank you, Q. Could I bother you for a range test? M insists on getting a baseline now that I’m training again.”

“Oh. Are you…” he adjusts his glasses. “You’ve started cardio?”

“The pulmonary specialist cleared me yesterday, as I’m sure you’re aware. My vision was deemed normal as well, but the range test will show if I need to do more than get my strength back.”

Q taps at the computer and finds a free timeslot. “There’s an opening at 4:00. I can have R meet you with the weapon—”

“I’d prefer you, Q. Surely by four you can spare a half hour for me.”

Bond’s expression is wary, but hopeful, and something flips in Q’s chest. He checks his own schedule. He’s actually a bit ahead of where he hoped to be on his current projects, but has one deadline to finish before he wanders out of Q-branch proper.

“Can we make it 4:30, 007?  I still have 004’s travel documents to complete.”

“Thank you, Q.”

Bond returns just as 004 is leaving, and she gives them both a wink and a “be good, boys!” as she strolls out the doors. Q rolls his eyes as he shuts down his workstation and grabs the kit he’d prepared for their trip to the range.

“Shall we, 007?”

Bond follows him downstairs. They have the range to themselves, and Q sets up a series of targets at increasing distances as Bond readies the Walther and dons safety goggles and ear protection. When Q puts on his own protection, he offers Q a quick nod and starts shooting.

It’s almost relaxing, watching Bond empty a magazine into the target. His stance is perfect: right hand cupped by the left, shoulders relaxed, arms straight, torso tight, knees slightly bent. Bond is graceful and strong and predatory. He pauses for a moment, stretches a crick in his neck, and then continues, firing shot after shot, the gun an extension of the man. Q glances at the target but he already knows what he’ll see. Kill shots, all.

Bond exchanges clips and moves to the next target, glancing at Q before beginning. Q’s not sure why he’s there. The system will log the accuracy of the shots, and any Q-brancher can sign the confirmation. It seems more that Bond wants Q to see _him_ , not his shooting. The only time he ever breaks form is to glance at Q. To see what he’s watching, perhaps, the target or the man. Q is always watching the man, and after the third glance, Bond seems pleased.

As he’s exchanging another magazine he turns and asks, “How have you been, Q?”

“Me? I’ve been fine, Bond. No one poisoned me.”

“No.” Bond lines himself up with the last target. “But you’re carrying your right shoulder higher again.” He lowers the ear protection and watches for Q to replace his own before continuing to shoot. Q crosses his arms as he watches Bond. His form is still impeccable, but he’s no longer seeing the elegant, efficient extension of a weapon. He sees the man. The front. The weapon. All of it at once. When Bond finishes and removes his ear protection, Q hasn’t even glanced at the target yet. Bond motions to it. “That’s got to be some of the best marksmanship in the agency.”

Q tilts his head, and raises an eyebrow.

“Who’s better?” Bond scoffs. “Rifles don’t count.”

Q walks over and holds his hand out for the Walther, which Bond relinquishes with raised brows.

“Prepare another target, if you would, Bond,” Q instructs, switching out the magazine. When he turns back, Bond has his ear protection on and is leaning back against the wall, arms crossed with a curious expression. Q prepares himself, taking mental stock of his own body. Bond is right; his shoulders are tense. He rolls them, forcing the muscles to relax. He takes his stance, takes aim, takes a breath and holds it, and empties the clip into the target. He turns to see Bond’s delighted expression.

“You’re better than me,” Bond accuses.

“In a range. Not in the field. I do _design_ weapons, you know. I don’t just hand them to you.”

Bond laughs. “Well, I hope that despite the comparatively poor performance, you’ll see fit to pass me.”

“Oh, yes. This is at least as good as your test in September. M will be pleased.”

“M,” Bond murmurs. “Just whom I was hoping to impress.”

Q locks eyes with Bond, who’s approaching slowly.

“You haven’t asked me how I’m doing.”

“Yes, well. I can see you’re recovering well.” Q abruptly realizes this conversation is private. The only surveillance in the range is a camera at the other end of the room, which Bond is currently blocking effectively. Bond is close. The feelings of intimacy — those easy conversations over dinner, quiet comfortable moments on the sofa, feeling James’ breath on his neck — all come rushing back. He swallows thickly, want coursing through him. “How are you, James?”

“I’m well, thank you for asking, Q. My heart is fine. My memory… my memory is returning, it would seem.”

“Is that so?” _How much?_ his mind screams. “I’m...I’m very pleased for you.”

“Are you? I was hoping you’d be pleased for you, too.”

He can feel the heat from James’ chest.

“Why didn’t you come, Q?” James asks quietly. “You stayed with me in the hospital, but as soon as I got to MI6, you disappeared. Were you really just being an extraordinary Quartermaster during all those visits to my flat?”

“No," Q assures. "I mean, at first, yes, my concern was primarily professional, but no. It’s just... you flinched away from my touch in the hospital, and I realized that the entire time we were… during all those _visits_ , you were under the influence of agents that increased your anxiety, and perhaps made you vulnerable, and that could be why you… you confided in me and shared so much with me. And you might have never chosen to do so if you weren’t drugged. And it wouldn’t be fair if I expected… well, anything really… once you were in your right mind.”

“I see,” Bond answers, watching him carefully. He puts his hand in his pockets and asks, “Do I seem in my right mind now?”

Q studies him for a moment, and Bond is completely at ease under his scrutiny. “Yes, actually.” He seems very much like the 007 he’s always known, though with a bit of the familiarity that has grown between them over the last month.

“Good. Have dinner with me.”

“What, _now_?”

“I’ll feed you up now if you’ve been neglecting yourself again, but I was thinking of Saturday. You have this weekend off; I checked your schedule. You aren’t the only one who can watch from a distance.”

Q stares, and Bond meets his gaze calmly. There’s none of the twitchiness Bond has exhibited during his hauntings. None of the sense Bond is fraying at the seams and needs his Quartermaster to stop the unraveling. The Bond before him is the one that he’s watched go after beautiful _femme fatales_ , drawn to all things mad and dangerous. He can’t imagine what would draw Bond to _him_. And yet he’s watching Q with an openness he’s never seen on mission...that he’s only seen when they were sitting together in Bond’s flat.

“Because I can shoot?” Q finally sputters.

“Yes, Q,” he answers with a laugh and a gleam in his eye, “because you can shoot. And perform CPR, and bully M into installing better first aid kits throughout the building, and _outrun_ me, in addition to all the technological prowess everyone knows of. Because you’re rather bad ass for a boffin, actually. Because you constantly surprise me — in a good way — which is not my usual response to people anymore, or the world, really. Because I remember relaxing to the sound of your clever fingers on the keyboard and finding it as comforting as the smell of gun oil. Because the more I get to know you, the less frightened I am of how easily I trust you. And because your eyes are the most intriguing shade of green, your curls are soft against my face when I’m falling asleep, and you look like some devilish fey when you practice yoga — and I need my Quartermaster, but I _want_ all the rest.”

Q hasn’t breathed since Bond started on what had to be the romantic request for a date Q has ever received, but it all rushes out of him now as he blurts, “Yes.”

“Yes? To dinner Saturday?”

“To all of it. Yes.”

“Marvelous,” Bond breathes. “Just one more thing, then, before I deliver you back up to Q-branch so you can wipe this security footage.”

He cups Q’s cheek with his left hand and leans forward to press a kiss into Q’s other cheek. “Thank you for saving my life,” he whispers against Q’s skin.

Q shivers and his eyes flutter closed. Bond smells like cologne and gunpowder and his cheek is clean-shaven but still a bit rough, but his lips and warm breath are soft, and Q savors it _all_. He feels Bond pull away before he can move to respond, and opens his eyes as Bond’s hand is returning to his pocket, as if he feels the need to confine it for fear of what it will do left to its own devices.

“Now if I kiss you this weekend, you’ll know it doesn’t have anything to do with gratitude, because we’ve gotten that out of the way.”

“Very well,” Q manages. “And if I kiss you back, I trust you are now confident it won’t be out of pity.”

James smiles. “I’ll pick you up at six, shall I?”

Q doesn’t remember the walk back up to Q-branch, but he remembers the last lingering look Bond gives him as he leaves.

And he remembers to wipe the footage from the range security camera.

 

**November 18**

Q is ridiculously nervous.

He’s knotted his tie three times — under the watchful eyes of his cats sitting on the bed — before finally being satisfied, but he’s now pleased with the result. He’s wearing one of the suits his aunt bought him, not one of the looser ones he typically wears to work. It’s a dark olive green that brings out his eyes and complexion in a way he thinks Bond will appreciate. The tie is a subtle paisley with greens and deep teals and dark chocolate browns. He smooths it under the waistcoat and fastens the remaining buttons. He’s considered putting in his rarely-used contacts, but he often botches the job and ends up with bloodshot eyes, and that won’t do for tonight.

Q runs the cat-hair remover over the jacket one last time before donning it, and Ada jumps down for closer inspection.

“Keep your distance, Ada love. I’m trying to look smart tonight. Cat hair isn’t part of the image.”

The bell rings and Q curses Bond’s punctuality.

“Be good,” he warns his cats.

He opens the door to find an _extremely_ dapper James Bond on his doorstep, his expression transforming from expectation to utter delight.

“See what I mean, Q?” he asks, looking him up and down. “You’re a constant source of entrancing surprises.” Bond’s expression is distractingly heated and _exactly_ what Q was hoping for.

“Let me just get my coat,” he says, before he can suggest that they dispense with dinner altogether and stay in.

“Wait,” James stops him, coming into the entry and closing the door behind him. “Before we go, two things. I’ve remembered something else, and… put something together without really trying, and I think you need to know.”

“Oh?” That sounds ominous.

Bond shakes his head. “The night I was hospitalized is still disjointed... like seeing snapshots or bits of video from a film rather than the whole show. But I remember a voice, and… and a name. And I don’t have clearance to know that name, and you haven’t given it to me, so it feels dishonest that I should have it. I don’t want to start that way with you.”

Q’s gone very still. “You think I’ll be upset that you remembered something that I let slip?”

“But you didn’t. You made a call in a moment of…”

“Panic. You can say panic, James. That’s what it was. I needed help, and I called someone I _knew_ would take my need seriously and I felt confident wouldn’t betray my trust. He’s not used to getting calls from me at all, much less in the middle of the night. Of course he didn’t think to use an alias.”

“And you had him on speaker so you could use your hands to save my life. I’m not finding fault with anyone, but it still leaves me with a secret I didn’t seek and haven’t earned, and I don’t want you to think I’m trying to have things to hold over you.”

Q nods, trying to decide if this bothers him — Bond knowing his identity. He finds it doesn’t. Even if this...whatever it is… doesn’t work, he trusts Bond to keep his secret safe.

“Say it.”

“You’re sure?”

Q nods.

Bond comes closer and softly murmurs, “Atherton.”

It’s a thrill to hear James say his name. More intimate than anything they’ve done so far.

“Shawe,” Q finishes, and when Bond looks puzzled he repeats, “Atherton Shawe.”

“Not Holmes… sorry you said his first name, and I’ve only ever met one Mycroft before.  It was at a government function I was working security, and I remember him mentioning his mother was a mathematician. And his voice is... distinctive.”

Q nods in understanding. “Not Holmes, quite right. We’re related via sisters… sisters with a penchant of naming children for family names on the mother’s side. They tend to be unusual.”

“Atherton Shawe. Sounds quite posh, actually.”

Q snorts a laugh. “So, are we sorted now? I trust you with my name; you don’t have to feel bad for having it.”

“Almost. I also remember that... you kissed me,” James practically accuses.

“What?  When?”

“That night. I thought I kissed you first on the range, but… I think you beat me to it. Here,” he touches his brow.

“Oh god, I think you’re right,” Q laughs, the memory coming back. He’d completely forgotten; it’d just been instinct.

“I really thought I could do this properly — wine and dine you and then kiss you goodnight — but I’m not sure I can last that long. Can I just…” his hands are moving to cup Q’s face. "May I kiss you, Q, before we go?”

He pulls away. “Q?”

Bond’s confusion clears in a fraction of a moment. “May I kiss you, Atherton, before we go?”

“Call me Ashe...most of the family does.”

Bonds lips are every bit as warm and soft as Ashe remembers.

 

** November 30 **

_9:17 p.m. GMT_

     AS: Do you think Aunt Elinor would mind if I brought a plus-one to her birthday dinner with such late notice?

     MH: I’m sure she’ll be delighted. John and Sherlock will be there too. Best tell Bond to gird his loins.

     AS: He’s taken down entire cartels, been interrogated by international terrorist groups; I have every faith in his ability to survive questions from you lot.

     MH: He does seem… resilient. A good quality for members of this family. Do you need a car sent?

     AS: James prefers to drive. See you Saturday.

     MH: Good day, cousin.

Ashe sets the phone on the table. “Mycroft says to gird your loins.”

“My loins are none of his concern,” James answers, tugging at Ashe until he’s straddling his lap. “They’re yours,” he whispers into a kiss.

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
